


Pattern Break

by ThisBeautifulDrowning



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cannibalism, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Dark Will Graham, Evolving Relationship, Hannigram - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder Husbands, Not Canon Compliant, Psychological Drama, Slash, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:02:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 72,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1780099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisBeautifulDrowning/pseuds/ThisBeautifulDrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will knew what had happened. He knew exactly how Abigail's ear had gotten into him, who had shoved it down his throat. He also knew that trying to indicate Hannibal as a killer again was futile. Jack seemed to want to believe him, going by the conversation in the BSHCI's visitor hall, but Jack needed something concrete, evidence. Hannibal had eluded capture for so long, he wasn't going to start leaving fingerprints or hairs at his crime scenes now. </p><p>No, Will was going to deal with Hannibal Lecter on his own terms. The man deserved to reap what he'd so carefully sowed, didn't he? He deserved to experience what he'd coaxed forth from the bottom of Will's soul, to see the result of his machinations. </p><p>---</p><p>After his release from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, Will doesn't return to work for the FBI.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> This story follows canon up to episode 2.07, "Yakimono", and then takes a dive into the deep end. People will die, and stay dead. If you find yourself completely attached to _all_ characters of the TV show, you might not want to read this. One of the principles of the fics I write tends to be 'there will be fluff, but there will be blood, death and drama/angst, too', and this one won't be the exception. My long term goal is murder husbands with a twist, and I'm not promising they'll arrive at the end completely unscathed ( c'mon, this is _Hannibal_ ). 
> 
> While I'm not going to write a gore-fest, I tend to dive into detailed descriptions of icky things. Not always, but now and then. Some of the deaths in this story will happen off-screen, so to speak, but not all. Again, this is Hannibal - if you can stomach what's on the screen in the series, you can stomach what's in here.
> 
> This is a slash story. If that's not your cup of tea, go away. 
> 
> Lastly, English isn't my native language, so if anything sounds weird, point it out. Same goes for tags: think I've missed some? Tell me!

**Pattern Break**

 

**1.**

 

With the Chesapeake Ripper stepping forward to claim his kills, _all_ of them, the case against Will unravelled like a child's cat's cradle, guts trailing everywhere. Will emerged from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane a man unmade – his life in shreds, his few stable relationships on the verge of being swept under by his actions and the media frenzy following his arrest. Everything around him was in limbo.

 

Yet he'd never felt stabler.

 

He felt as though he was leaving the fractured parts of himself behind, crushed into the corners of his dark cell in the basement of the psychiatric institution. Let the Chiltons of the world make of the pieces what they wished: it felt good to discard a skin Will felt he no longer needed, now that he'd already been stripped to the marrow of his bones.

 

Jack was waiting for him in the BSHCI's visitor hall, leaning against the handrail of the stairs with a nonchalance Will could see at a glance was a front. Bedrock, indeed. “You need a ride?”

 

Will slowed his step. Now there was an olive branch, if he'd ever seen one. “I was going to call a cab.”

 

“We found Miriam Lass. Alive.”

 

The information bounced around in Will's mind. He wasn't as shocked as he might have been, expecting by now to have curve balls thrown at him every other minute. “You catch the Ripper?” Jack shook his head. “How is she, Miriam?”

 

“Traumatized.” Jack, hands in his pocket, slowly walked toward Will. “Miriam thanked me, after we found her. Thanked me for not giving up on her. But I had. I had given up on her, and I gave up on you, too. I thought she was dead. I thought you were crazy. And I gave up on trying to find the both of you.”

 

It was likely as much of an apology, an admission of guilt, as Will was ever going to get from Jack. It _grated_. “You didn't have to find me, Jack.” Will rapped his knuckles against one of the ugly, dehumanizing cages in the visitor hall, moving around and past the other man. “You just had to listen to me.”

 

He'd made it to the stairs when Jack's voice rang out. “I put Miriam in a room with Hannibal Lecter. She stated definitively that he is not the Chesapeake Ripper.”

 

Of course she would. Hannibal was never going to leave a witness to his crimes without _some_ fail safe in place, some ulterior motive. Miriam Lass had been found because he'd wanted her to be found.

 

Briefly, Will wondered what fail saves Hannibal thought were in place for _him_. Then he marvelled quietly at his own nonchalance, rolling that thought around for a bit. He wasn't bothered by it. What more could Hannibal do to him that hadn't been done already? “That definitive enough for you?”

 

“No. It wasn't.”

 

And here was the moment when, weeks, a lifetime ago, Will Graham would have asked to see the crime scene, the place where they'd found Miriam. He could see it clearly now, the way he'd willingly offered himself, out of a desire to save lives. Saving lives felt good, and the knowledge of having done well, of having defeated and brought to justice yet another monster, had helped him resist the pull of every serial killer anchoring a piece of themselves in his mind.

 

That Will Graham was gone. While a small part of him felt vindicated that Jack, at least, now seemed to consider Hannibal a viable suspect in the Chesapeake Ripper case, a far larger part stomped its foot childishly. They would have let him rot. If the Ripper hadn't claimed his kills, and with Beverly dead, the FBI would have let Will rot in his cell. That was a bitter pill to swallow.

 

“I need evidence,” Jack said.

 

“Well,” Will resumed his pace up the stairs, toward freedom, “good luck with that, then.”

 

He imagined it was shock that kept Jack from calling after him.

 

*

 

Will took a cab to Wolf Trap. When he got out of the car, his front door opened, and his pack of canine companions came bounding toward him. He dropped to his knees, a small, tight knot in his chest unfurling. God, he'd missed them.

 

Alana appeared in the wake of Will's dogs. “Welcome home.”

 

“Thank you.” He was stroking backs, flanks, enjoying the tails wagging, the happy whines, the wet, rough tongues on his cheeks and hands. A dog's love was unconditional, untainted. There wasn't much left in his life that hadn't been tainted beyond salvation, and it felt good to bask in something pure. “Thank you for looking after them. They seem happy.”

 

“Happy to see you.”

 

There was a dog among the pack that Will didn't recognize. “Who's this?”

 

“Apple Sauce. She's mine.” Alana waded into the dog pack, readying a leash. “She likes apple sauce. I rescued her.”

 

“Picking up some of my bad habits?”

 

“Picking up your _good_ habits.” Alana looked at him. “You challenged my whole framework of assumptions about the way you are. The way I think you are.”

 

Suddenly the atmosphere between them matched the cold, wide fields surrounding Will's farm. “Oh, the way you think I am isn't always a reliable guide to who I am.”

 

“I was wrong about you.”

 

“Because you didn't believe me? Or in me?” Will spread his arms wide, shrugging, He was smiling, but it felt wrong on his face, as frozen as the snow under the soles of his boots. “Because you let me question my sanity? My sense of reality?”

 

“Because you tried to kill Hannibal.” Alana wasn't smiling. “You're wrong about him, Will.”

 

Alana knew how to choose her words. She wasn't aiming to hurt him, Will could tell, simply telling him the truth as she saw it. That didn't take the sting out of the verbal missile. He knelt again, petting Winston. “ _You're_ wrong about him, Alana. You see the best in him. I _don't_.”

 

“What was done to you doesn't excuse what you did. Are you going to try to hurt Hannibal again? Is he safe?”

 

The slight urgency in Alana's tone of voice struck a chord in Will. He glanced up at her. Realisation dawned in increments, along with a hefty dose of ugly jealousy he swiftly suppressed. So _that's_ how it was. The smile slipped from his face. “From me, or _for_ you?”

 

Alana didn't answer. That, in itself, was an answer.

 

Between the jealousy and the blow to his ego, Will felt curiously calm. Love made blind, to the faults and abysses in loved ones. He was a shining example of that trope, opening up to Hannibal Lecter like he had never opened to anyone, trusting the man to help him, all the way until the truth had been screaming in Will's face, undeniable and rank. Even now, his feelings for Hannibal were conflicted, rapidly ping-ponging back and forth between genuine affection, a sense of security, of being cared for, and hate, disappointment, abandonment.

 

Really, he couldn't blame Alana. It wouldn't be fair to her. Hannibal was good at what the did – too good, good enough to fool even Will Graham, with his empathy disorder that allowed him intimate insight into the minds of killers, practically, _literally_ let him step inside their heads. Hannibal had pulled the wool over everyone's eyes. He'd been right under Will's nose the entire time, and Will hadn't seen him until it was too late.

 

Until now. He saw Hannibal now. Saw what he was.

 

Will rose. Alana was still expecting an answer, her mouth tight with disapproval. That...hurt. Will had been vaguely in love with her for almost as long as they knew each other: a schoolboy's crush shattering against harsh reality, a pleasant, half-imagined possibility denied fruition. Now she was looking at him with concern, but it wasn't concern for him. Beneath the crisp, cold winter air, he smelled a burnt bridge, acrid and tarred; in his hand, he felt the match.

 

Will gave her the answer she wanted to hear. “He's safe. From me. You're all safe from me, now.”

 

He called his dogs together, heading for the house. Alana's gaze was burning a hole into his back, but he didn't turn. He should warn her, tell her to stay as far away from Hannibal Lecter as possible, but to what end? He'd been pointing fingers at the other man for so long now, it felt redundant to do so again, when it was clear his words would fall on deaf ears.

 

Will was _done_ fighting windmills.

 

*

 

Jack left him alone for a week. By the time the call came, Will had composed and sent his resignation letter. There hadn't been any word from the officials at Quantico about a possible reinstatement either as an FBI consultant or a lecturer at the Academy; Will made it easy for them, spared them the trouble. He was due a rather hefty reimbursement for unlawful imprisonment, so money wasn't an issue, and if it became one, well, there were always boat motors. It wasn't like he was living the high life, anyway.

 

Jack called late in the afternoon on a Wednesday. “I need you,” he said without preamble, without greeting. “I know you feel wronged, and I get that you want to spend some quality time out there in the middle of nowhere moping, but I need you.”

 

Will wouldn't call what he was doing 'moping'. He was reacclimatizing himself with the concept of wide open spaces, the absence of bars, the freedom to do as he wished. He was fixing up his house, sorting through his belongings, when he wasn't taking long walks with his dogs. The FBI forensics teams had left a mess behind when they searched for physical evidence in the wake of Abigail's disappearance, and though Will could tell someone had cleaned up – Alana? – he felt it was time for a more thorough inventory of the paraphernalia of his life, or what was left of it.

 

It was time to throw out the old, the useless.

 

He was sitting on the floor in front of the bookcase in his living room, the dogs snug against him, between stacks of books and journals. He wasn't surprised Jack was calling him – the news were dominated by the curious case of a woman found inside a horse.

 

“You don't need me,” he told Jack. “You have the best and the brightest working for you. Let them earn their pay and contribute.”

 

“No one contributes the way you do, and you know it. There are lives at stake, Will.”

 

“There will always be lives at stake. The last few times I contributed, I ended up contributing myself all the way into the tender, loving care of Doctor Chilton. That's not a mistake I'm anxious to repeat.”

 

Somewhere in the background of Jack's heavy sigh, a horse was whinnying. “Just take a look. One look. That's all I'm asking. We can do this one off the books. No one needs to know you came.”

 

“Sorry, Jack. Not interested.”

 

A few seconds of silence passed. Someone was speaking to Jack, too softly for Will to identify them. Then Jack said, “I don't accept your resignation, Will,” and hung up.

 

There had been a definitive echo of 'this isn't over yet' to Jack's words, and some part of Will _wanted_ to go out there and find the person who'd stuffed a dead woman into a horse. As much as he hated the side effects of his 'gift', he had always been fascinated by them, these people who spat on all morality and acted out their fantasies and urges, because they wanted to, because they _had_ to. In the sea of dull mankind, they stood out like pillars of swirling darkness, iron to the magnets in his mind.

 

Just as he must have appeared like a pillar of something to Hannibal. Not darkness, though, at least not _then_. Shades of grey, perhaps, in the reflective pieces of a personality capable of sucking up the worst in others like a sponge. Hannibal had worked tirelessly to coax those pieces to the surface, with a clinical, ice-cold kind of curiosity, and Will had _let_ him, turning up for one appointment after the other, always on time.

 

The thing Will abhorred the most he'd given Hannibal a free pass at: access to his mind, and the keys to unlock him.

 

 _Wind him up, and watch him go_.

 

Will was going to have to deal with Hannibal, sooner or later.

 

First, though, he was going to deal with the dead woman inside a horse, and the mind who'd put her there.

 

*

 

Ironically, the press had little interest in an exonerated serial killer. The same papers that had printed front page articles about Will Graham, Copycat Killer, printed second or third page blurbs about his release and the dropped charges against him. Innocence didn't sell.

 

For the most part, Will was glad about that. He didn't need or want that kind of attention, least of all from Maryland's tabloid press. Freddie Lounds sent him an email, reminding him that he still owed her an interview, but refrained from resorting to her usual kind of semi-stalking tricks. She was likely very busy following up on the development of the 'Horse Hounder', as the latest perpetrator had been dubbed.

 

Will was busy himself, and thankful for the lack of attention to his miraculous release from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Journalists shoving their recorders and microphones in his face would have seriously impaired his freedom of movement.

 

One nightly visit to the Blackbriar Stables near Northwood, and he had a decent impression of the killer. It wasn't as easy as it was when the FBI's forensic team provided names, as well as exact times and dates, but Will could make do, if he had to. It wasn't always empathy, feeling his way into unfamiliar territory. A lot of it was deduction based on evidence: detective work, plain and simple.

 

In order to pick the correct horse to fit into what had to have been a tight schedule, considering the amount of work involved in stuffing an adult woman into a mare's uterus, the killer had to have known the horse. He or she had to have been familiar with the layout of the stables and the working schedule of the people there. The killer had to have medical knowledge, enough to locate a mare's uterus while working under less than favourable conditions in a badly lit stable, too.

 

Will visited Blackbriar Stables a second time, during the day, when the Baltimore PD and FBI vans were gone. The proprietor, run ragged already and understandably concerned about what the media attention would to do his business of renting horses to tourists, didn't ask to see the FBI badge Will no longer possessed.

 

An hour later, Will stood in a shabby barn at one of the outlying stations of Blackbriar Stables, and met Peter Bernadone. He talked to him for three hours.

 

*

 

Peter Bernadone was a man indefinitely more damaged than Will would ever be. Digging a corpse out of her grave, putting a live bird in her chest, and then sewing her into a mare's uterus was an act that broke all kinds of taboos, not to mention laws, but Peter had seen it as an act of _healing_. He'd tried to undo the damage caused by someone else, in a way Will couldn't help but think of as innocent.

 

Will saw the parallels between himself and Peter – they'd both been betrayed by people they trusted – and felt immediately protective of him.

 

But not enough to step in and keep him from being arrested, when the FBI made the same deductions leading from Blackbriar Stables to the barn. Will read all about Peter's arrest on Tattlecrime.com, relieved when he learned that the man had been immediately transferred to a secure facility specialised in mentally ill criminals – _not_ the BSHCI – and not a prison cell.

 

Behind walls and bars, Peter was safe from the monster casting its long shadow over him. The man responsible for Peter's attempt at healing, the real 'Horse Hounder', required more than simple police work to catch. Better for Peter to be safe, while Will went hunting.

 

*

 

Three days later, before noon, Will returned from a shopping trip to find Jack sitting on the front porch. The dogs were barking their heads off inside the house. Will lugged the heavy grocery bags out of the trunk and to his front door, greeting Jack with a nod.

 

“Strange thing,” Jack began, staring out across the snow-covered ground of Will's property. “That 'Horse Hounder' case.”

 

Will searched his pockets for his keys. “I heard you caught the guy. Congratulations.”

 

“I'm not sure we caught the _right_ guy. We found soil in the first victim's throat, leading us to a site with sixteen graves. So Peter Bernadone killed sixteen women, then dug one back up and sewed her into a horse. Why her? Why not the other ones?” Jack rose, kicking snow from his boots. “The time line doesn't match up, either. Some of these women vanished while Bernadone was at the hospital, recovering from a hoof to the head.”

 

“Really?”

 

Jack's gaze came to rest on Will, probing. “Did you go to see Bernadone, Will? He says a man came to visit him, fitting your description. He also says he didn't kill any of these women, just that he sewed Sarah Craver into the horse because he wanted to _help_ her. He says his social worker killed them.”

 

Will leaned against the door, hands in his pockets. “I went to see him, yes.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I was...curious. I wanted to see if I could still do my _thing_.” He smirked. “I was afraid I'd gotten a little rusty, locked away and all that.”

 

“And can you? Do your thing?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Jack stepped closer. Will could tell he was doing his best not to loom, to appear non-threatening, casual. It was so unlike Jack's usual in-your-face behaviour that it was comical. Will gave him points for trying, while wondering at the same time if Alana or Hannibal had cautioned Jack about the way he approached Will.

 

_Gentle, gentle. Don't spook the fragile teacup._

 

Jack said, “You could have helped. We could've found Bernadone a lot faster, if you'd helped us.”

 

Will looked away, gaze on the horizon. “You found Bernadone the same way I would have done, by looking at the evidence. My resignation is final, Jack. I'm not going back out there, no matter in what capacity.”

 

“Unless it's to make sure you're not rusty, of course,” Jack said shrewdly.

 

“Of course.”

 

“I see.” Nodding to himself, Jack burrowed deeper into his coat. “Well, then I guess you won't be interested in Clark Ingram.”

 

“Who's that?”

 

“Bernadone's social worker. The guy Bernadone claims killed the sixteen women. We've been trying to get a hold of him, but no luck. It's as if he disappeared off the face of the earth. Clocked into work the morning Bernadone was arrested, didn't clock in the next day.”

 

“Could be an admission of guilt. Maybe Bernadone is telling the truth. Maybe Ingram ran because he's guilty, and Bernadone was just his fall guy.”

 

“Could be. We've issued an APB for him. I'm just thinking it won't do us any good.”

 

It was time to get to the real reason for Jack's visit. “You got something to say to me, say it. Don't fish around in the dark like that. You're better than that.”

 

Jack shrugged. “I'm not fishing. Just saying it's weird – you visit Bernadone, Bernadone points at Clark Ingram, and Clark Ingram's vanishes.”

 

Will looked him straight in the eye. “You think I killed Clark Ingram.”

 

“I don't know. Did you?”

 

“No. Want to search my property? Pump my stomach?” Will patted his midsection, stepping forward. “Maybe you think I swallowed Ingram's ear, the way I -”

 

Jack held up both hands in a placating gesture. “Will, stop, I -”

 

“- swallowed Abigail's. Is that why you're here?”

 

Looking downright uneasy, like a man who'd poked at a snake's nest and now saw the cobra uncoil, Jack retreated, literally taking a few steps back. It was only then that Will noticed he'd moved right into Jack's personal space with every word. It was a weird feeling, knowing he'd made Jack _back down_.

 

Jack Crawford never backed down. He wouldn't have, before. Jack was good at intimidating people when he had to, a skill both rooted in his nature and refined over long years in a stressful job, handy when he needed results fast. He was a bully, with enough good qualities to offset that particular character trait, and most importantly, aware of his tendency to strong-arm others. He knew how to push.

 

He also knew when to back down, like he had now. Will wondered just how broken Jack thought he was.

 

“I didn't come here to antagonize you.” Jack sighed. “I don't know why I came. So much about this is unresolved.”

 

“About me, you mean.”

 

“About everything. We still don't know how Abigail Hobbs' ear ended up in your stomach. Look, I'm not trying to browbeat you into rejoining the FBI. I accept that you want to quit. But don't you want to know what happened? The Chesapeake Ripper set you up. Don't you want to get back at him?”

 

Will knew what had happened. He knew exactly how Abigail's ear had gotten into him, _who_ had shoved it down his throat. He also knew that trying to indicate Hannibal as a killer again was futile. Jack seemed to want to believe him, going by the conversation in the BSHCI's visitor hall, but Jack needed something concrete, evidence. Hannibal had eluded capture for so long, he wasn't going to start leaving fingerprints or hairs at his crime scenes now.

 

No, Will was going to deal with Hannibal Lecter on his own terms. The man deserved to reap what he'd so carefully sowed, didn't he? He deserved to experience what he'd coaxed forth from the bottom of Will's soul, to see the result of his machinations.

 

Jack mistook Will's silence for uncertainty. “Just think about it for a bit. Give me a call when you've made up your mind, all right? Don't be a stranger.”

 

Will nodded. He suspected they both knew that call wasn't going to happen any time soon, but if it helped to keep Jack away from him for a while, he'd play the part of the recovering victim. “All right.”

 

He watched Jack drive away. Then he gathered up his grocery bags and went inside. It was a nice day. Perfect for some ice fishing, out on the lake. The dogs could use another long walk, too; they'd picked up on the tension between Jack and Will and were subsequently agitated by it. Winston kept butting his head into Will's thigh, asking to be petted.

 

Will packed away his groceries, humming to himself. His glance fell on his work bank: a perfect opportunity to test the lures he'd been working on.

 

*

 

The sky was just beginning to shade into a darker grey when Will returned from the lake. He saw the Bentley parked near his house and the man leaning against it long before Hannibal turned his head and watched him stalk through the knee-high snow.

 

When he reached the car, Will set down the bucket with the three trout he'd caught. Keeping his calm was harder than he'd anticipated, now that he stood face to face with Hannibal. The desire to drive his fist straight into Hannibal's face, to strangle him with his bare hands, was a physical compulsion travelling all the way down from his shoulders into his fingertips.

 

Will settled on a neutral, “Hannibal.”

 

“Good evening, Will.”

 

Hannibal didn't move from his comfortable lean against the Bentley. He was dressed in a long coat, a scarf snug around his neck, expensive-looking leather gloves on his hands. He was avidly looking at Will, with an intensity Will would have found unsettling, even invasive before. People, especially those in Baltimore's psychiatric community, had a habit of staring at him as though they were hoping to tunnel straight into his head.

 

How telling, then, that he was used to it coming from Hannibal. That he didn't _mind_.

 

The silence stretched between them. Hannibal broke it first. “I was waiting for you. You didn't come.”

 

It was Friday. Usually the day Will went to Chandler Square in Baltimore, for his standing appointment. “I didn't think you'd appreciate my company. I sent someone to kill you.”

 

Hannibal nodded gravely, but made no comment on that specific element of their past relationship. He nodded at the house. “Are you going to invite me in?”

 

Any number of answers went through Will's mind, from giving in to the urge to murder Hannibal right where he stood, to telling him to get the fuck off of his property, to picking up his bucket and walking away without another word.

 

He knocked the tip of his shoe against the bucket, instead. “Do you know how to cook trout?”

 

“I do. I must admit, though, your kitchen was not properly equipped to my standards, last time I saw it.”

 

_Ears in the sink, and all that._

 

“Oh, don't worry about that.” Will picked up the bucket. The three trout in their shallow layer of water flopped and beat their tails, as though sensing the fate that awaited them. “I've _expanded_. Let's go inside.”

 

Hannibal followed him, wearing a Mona Lisa smile.

 

*

 


	2. 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to note, as the plot of this story vaguely follows the overlaying plot of the TV series, as far as the killers they encounter are concerned, I'm using parts of the dialogue. So if something sounds damn familiar, it's because I've taken it verbatim from the series.

**2.**

 

The dogs ambushed Hannibal with snuffles and wagging tails, nosing at his coat, his shoes, his hands. It was as amusing to watch as it was disconcerting. How many times had Hannibal been inside Will's home, for the dogs to greet him like an old friend? Alana had taken care of them during Will's incarceration, but it didn't take much of a stretch of the imagination to see her and Hannibal taking them on walks together, now that they were together. The dogs weren't watch dogs, trained to protect Will's property, his house, yet they usually reacted to strangers with a chorus of barks and at least some reserve.

 

No reserve here. Buster stood with his front paws on Hannibal's knee, wagging his tail so much his entire hindquarters were jiggling. Even Winston, the latest addition to Will's pack of canines, was rubbing up against Hannibal's leg.

 

“My dogs like you,” Will observed. “Should I be jealous?”

 

“They must remember the treats I brought them, when you were on the Lost Boys case.” Hannibal was trying to take his coat off – no easy task with six dogs all over him. “No cause for jealousy.”

 

Will left Hannibal to extricating himself from the friendly ambush and went into the kitchen, depositing his fishing rod and other outdoor equipment on a counter, his hat, gloves and jacket on a chair. He needed a moment to collect himself, glad the dogs were providing a distraction for his guest, and moved on automatic: bucket in the sink, pots and pans readied, knives and carvers taken from the drawers, spice racks from the cupboard.

 

When he looked up, Hannibal stood in the doorway. “I see what you meant.” He stepped into the kitchen, looking around. “An attempt to start fresh?”

 

Will's old kitchen had been haphazardly put together, mismatched bits and pieces cobbled into something useful, much like the rest of his house. Now there was a row of counters with cupboards above, eggshell white, leading up to a large refrigerator. A spacious kitchen island with a sink and a large stove/oven combination sat under a small waterfall of halogen lights.

 

The contractor had insisted on rounding up the installation of the new kitchen by painting the walls in a warm beige colour, to 'compliment the furniture'. Will had rehung his assortment of framed pictures showing fly-fishing lures, landscapes and other odds and ends, to compliment his own sense of aesthetics, adding a touch of old to the new furniture and appliances.

 

“Something like that.” Will wasn't going to deny that looking at his old sink had conjured up memories of Abigail's ear in a puddle of bile, if Hannibal brought the topic up. That was, however, not the only reason. He really felt it had been time for a change in his life. The kitchen wasn't the only room now sporting a new set of furniture.

 

Sometimes, the outside needed to match the inside. And Will's _inside_ had undergone tremendous changes.

 

“Is that why you didn't come to see me?”

 

Will picked up a large carving knife, contemplating its blunt edge. “Do I detect a note of accusation in your tone of voice there? The last time we spoke, I was in a cage, and you called me a liar. If memory serves, your good bye sounded rather final.” And he'd been so _disappointed_. He'd already known Matthew Brown had failed to kill Hannibal, but seeing the man in the flesh, not a hair out of place and so _smug_ , had almost been too much to bear. “Like I said: I didn't think you'd appreciate my company.”

 

He grabbed a trout from the bucket, holding the wiggling fish down on the cutting board. Three sharp whacks with the blunt edge of the knife, and the flopping stopped. He glanced up at Hannibal, finding him watching the procedure with a crease between his eyebrows.

 

“Is that why you stopped working for the FBI? Why you won't even consult on cases?” Hannibal asked. “You think they don't appreciate your company?”

 

“I think,” Will continued with the next trout, “ _I_ don't appreciate _their_ company.” _Whack, whack, whack_. “I find it rather difficult to reconcile letting me rot away in that cell with trying to make use of me the minute I'm let go. Beverly was the only one who would even consider looking into my case. So: no. I'm not eager to lend my faculties to the FBI, any time soon.”

 

Jack had called it moping. Will called it a healthy, natural reaction. It wasn't his fault that no one seemed to see it that way.

 

Hannibal cocked his head. “And Alana?”

 

Will went for the last trout. “What about Alana?”

 

“She told me you were rather curt with her, when she met you after you were released. She cares for you, Will.”

 

“I care for me, too. I finally _started_ caring for me. And if that means cutting people out of my life whom I perceive to currently not have my best interests at heart, so be it.”

 

Hannibal made a disapproving face. “That's a rather selfish attitude. You're lashing out, Will. You're being passive-aggressive, responding to what you see as unfair treatment at the hands of the people you considered your friends. You -”

 

“I considered _you_ my friend,” Will interrupted. “Though that's not quite what we were, weren't we? More like... science project and scientist. Did you want to help with the cooking, or not?”

 

The abrupt change of topic seemed to throw Hannibal for a loop. It was rare to see the man off his game; Will enjoyed every second of it. He couldn't tell what Hannibal was thinking at this moment, but Will knew that whatever Hannibal had been expecting to find when he drove out to Wolf Trap, wasn't what he was seeing in the kitchen right now.

 

It was refreshing to not be the one floundering around helplessly, for once. Of course, Hannibal Lecter didn't flounder for long – he was too good for that. He stared at Will for perhaps three seconds, then recovered beautifully.

 

“Of course. I apologize.” Neatly rolling up his shirt sleeves, Hannibal joined Will at the kitchen island. “Do you have vegetables? These are beautiful fish, but they will be even more beautiful with a little colour added to them.”

 

“Carrots in the fridge.” Will pointed with the knife. “Bottom drawer. Onions and some other stuff in the basket on the counter next to it.”

 

Going to the fridge would require Hannibal to turn his back to Will. They looked at each other, Will with the large knife in his hand, the three trout between them, smears of fish blood on the board. With a tiny smirk, Hannibal rounded the counter and opened the fridge.

 

The silence that fell was absolute.

 

Will cut open the first trout to gut it.

 

The fridge door closed again. Hannibal reappeared at the kitchen island with a bundle of carrots and celery, onions and lemons. “I assume that is Clark Ingram's heart.”

 

The name of Peter Bernadone's social worker had been kept out of the press. Jack must have called Hannibal in to consult on the Horse Hounder case, when Will refused. “Curious, that you would assume it's a human heart. Do you have some familiarity with what human hearts look like?”

 

“I was an emergency room surgeon. We talked about that. Is it Mr. Ingram's heart?”

 

Will retrieved a second cutting board and another knife, laying them out on Hannibal's side of the kitchen island. “It's a _pig's_ heart.”

 

Hannibal picked up the knife. With a few, practised motions, he stripped the carrots of their greens and began cutting them into even rounds. “Ever prepared a pig's heart, Will? It is a notoriously difficult dish. Cook it too long, and the meat becomes stringy, too hard to chew. And, the one you have there doesn't look very fresh. I would throw it out, if I were you. Who knows what you might attract, if you keep it around.”

 

Metaphor. _Throw it out, before someone_ other _than me sees it._ “My bad,” Will said. “I'm new at this. I'm still learning.”

 

The second trout's guts wandered into the waste basket. Will made a mental note to throw the trash out before he went to sleep, to keep the dogs from getting into it.

 

When he looked up, Hannibal was studying him again, equal parts calculation and curiosity. There was wariness, too, an old badger's careful estimation of a situation.

 

*

 

Dinner was going to take place in Will's remodelled dining room. It was a far cry from Hannibal's opulent set-up. A rustic dining table, four chairs, dimmed lights; no bouquets on the table, old paintings on the walls, comfortably worn carpet on the floor.

 

While the trout were roasting slowly on a bed of onions, carrots and celery, Will lit a fire in the fireplace and let out the dogs, so they wouldn't have to go later and interrupt dinner. Hannibal joined him on the backyard porch, still with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, and for the first time, Will took note of the long scars on the insides of Hannibal's forearms.

 

“Do they bother you?”

 

Hannibal lifted a hand and made a fist, muscles flexing under his skin. “Scars are marks of life, of meaningful events. They bother me no more than the crow's feet around my eyes.”

 

“You consider me sending a killer after you a meaningful event?”

 

“I consider it the desperate act of a man at the end of his rope.” Hannibal dropped his hand again. “However, I would prefer if you tried not to add more to my collection. The circumstances under which I received these scars were exceedingly painful. Are you going to try again, Will?”

 

Will leaned against the porch railing, watching the dogs romp around in the snow. Such a loaded question. He'd fantasized about killing Hannibal – killing that _thing_ that was Hannibal. He saw it even now, superimposed over the man standing next to him, flickering in and out.

 

The sight was so familiar by now, Will didn't flinch, didn't stare. “I discovered a truth about myself, when I tried to have you killed.”

 

“That doing bad things to bad people makes you feel good.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you think I'm a bad person, then?”

 

Will licked his lips. “I'm not sure you _are_ a person. But what you are is... interesting.” Turning sideways so he could see Hannibal, he looked. He'd had problems with that, before: eye contact. Now, it was so easy. Even the dead eyes of the grotesque creature held no more distraction for him. “Are you going to tell Jack about the heart in my fridge?”

 

“Why should I? Jack wouldn't be interested in a pig's heart.” Hannibal studied him in return. “You didn't answer my question.”

 

“No,” Will said, “I didn't.” He whistled for the dogs. “I think the trout are ready, now.”

 

They ate in silence. Occasionally, a dog's nose appeared over the edge of the table, begging for scraps. Will was surprised Hannibal didn't seem to mind the interruptions. Then again, he probably didn't measure animals on the same scales as he did people.

 

Or he wasn't saying anything because he didn't want to break the strange cease-fire that existed between them at the moment. Like Jack, Hannibal had backed down, albeit in a different way. Clearly, he'd been expecting Will to turn up at his office, or even in his home. When Will hadn't, he'd driven an hour through snow and ice to Wolf Trap.

 

Hannibal could no more cast Will aside than Will could forget or ignore Hannibal.

 

It was a minor victory. Very minor, compared to what Will truly wanted. _Killing_ Hannibal wasn't the problem; Hannibal had his weak spots. Matthew Brown had proven that. Will could kill him now, right here in the dining room. Ram the knife into his heart, instead of cutting off another piece of fish. Excuse himself to go to the bathroom, grab the hunting rifle from under the work bank, blow Hannibal's head off.

 

Boom, over. Easy. Will could make Hannibal disappear, the same way he'd made Clark Ingram disappear. There'd be no heart sitting in Will's fridge, waiting to be discovered by the right person.

 

Too easy.

 

 _I want to see you crawl_ , Will thought, and the image of Hannibal in the dirt sang along his nerves like a gentle caress. _I want the whole world to know what you are. I want you down on your knees, unmade, the way I was unmade_. _You want something from me, or you wouldn't have gone to all that trouble. You want me to be your friend._

 

_I'll be your friend._

 

 _And then I'll be your ruin_.

 

*

 

“What happens now?”

 

Hannibal was putting on his coat. It was nearing midnight. After dinner, they'd sat and talked. Meaningless stuff, trivialities: the careful conversation of two people getting to know each other all over again, skirting around the pitfalls of their shared past. As bland as the topics had been, Will was fascinated by Hannibal's ability to sidestep, to _hint_ rather than outright admit. He chose his words more carefully now than he had during their therapy sessions.

 

“Whatever you want to happen.” Hannibal arranged his scarf. “You said you are not sure if I am a person. I am not sure what you are, now, either. You've... evolved.”

 

Will allowed himself an insouciant smile. “You wanted me to embrace my nature, doctor. I'm just following the urges I kept down for so long... cultivating them as the inspirations they are.”

 

Hannibal stilled. All through the evening, they'd spoken through metaphor, hints, veiled meanings. This was the closest they'd gotten to the _real_ cause of both their presences here, in this curious constellation.

 

“I am not entirely sure that is what you're doing.” Hannibal dropped his hands into his coat pockets, suddenly unapproachable, regal. Cold. It gave Will a thrill, to watch the transformation from pleasant dinner partner to something _else_.

 

This wasn't Hannibal Lecter, looking at him. This was the Chesapeake Ripper, the soulless, empty-eyed shadow creature.

 

“Then what do you think I'm doing?”

 

“You could be trying to bait me.” Hannibal pursed his lips. “This could all be an elaborate plan, to trick me into admitting what you think is my true nature. You said you are cutting the people whom you perceive to have wronged you out of your life. I wonder, then, why you invited _me_ into your home.”

 

“So you admit you wronged me.”

 

“You think I wronged you.”

 

Will sucked on his lower lip. He could lie, but Hannibal would know it. In order to trick people, fool them, you had to _know_ them, know what made them tick. It was all the reason Hannibal had been able to manipulate Will – he _knew_ him. Will had let Hannibal know him. Had trusted him.

 

“I am...exploring. Learning.” Will didn't have to pretend that he was choosing his words carefully. “A part of me wants to kill you. But,” quick smile, wavering, _bait_ , “there is also a part that wants to know you.”

 

Hannibal stepped closer. He wasn't that much taller than Will, but he knew how to loom, and unlike Jack, he didn't try not to. “And which part is that?”

 

“The part that finally accepted that some people deserve to die.”

 

“By your hand.”

 

“Yes.”

 

And that was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? Will had changed. He didn't think of himself as evil, although going by his treatment of Clark Ingram, he should. Perhaps he'd truly gone insane inside the Baltimore State Hospital, pushed beyond his limits by circumstances out of his control. Perhaps it had started earlier, the barriers in his mind weakening, the iron-set divides between what was morally acceptable becoming fuzzier the longer the encephalitis wreaked havoc on his brain, the longer he allowed Hannibal to wreak havoc on his brain.

 

Perhaps Hannibal was right, and the capacity for violence had always been in him, slumbering.

 

Yet he'd been fully in control, sending Matthew Brown after Hannibal. It had been his conscious decision to let Peter Bernadone be arrested, while taking care of the root of the evil behind the Horse Hounder case. Will couldn't claim outside influence or circumstances beyond his control or sickness for either of those instances, and that _should_ have scared him, alarmed him.

 

It didn't. He had left that old skin behind, and no particular interest in trying it on again for size. If giving in meant being able to concentrate on what was important now, Will would accept those changes. They'd made him stronger. Before, assuming a criminal's point of view had come at the price of fear – fear of losing himself, of assimilating too many pieces. Of not finding his way back out.

 

He could find a way. And more.

 

He lifted his gaze to Hannibal's. “I'd like to resume my therapy, Doctor Lecter. If you'll have me as a patient.”

 

Hannibal nodded slowly. “I believe that would be in your best interest.” He was still looking at Will with that detached intensity. “When shall we begin?”

 

“Next Friday?”

 

*

 

After the Bentley's tail lights had disappeared around the bend of the street, Will sat at the dining room table. Winston snuggled up against him, nosing into Will's belly. Absent-mindedly patting the dog, Will looked over the remains of the dinner.

 

Another victory. How large of one would remain to be seen. Will had made a deal with the devil tonight – on his terms, this time.

 

*

 

On Monday, Jack called. “You want in on this one. You _want_.”

 

Outside, a car was driving up. The dogs started barking, scrabbling at the door. Will was about to shoot down Jack for calling while already en route to him when he took note of the model of the car; not one of the FBI's big, clunky Jeeps, but one of those little sports cars, stylish, in wine red, completely unsuited to driving in heavy snow and ice.

 

“Call me later,” Will said, ending the call before Jack could get another word in. He stepped out, the dogs bounding past him and toward the man who'd exited the car and now stood on the welcome mat of his front porch.

 

Frederick Chilton looked like the hounds of hell were after him. Shirt hanging out of his belt, hair in disarray, skin grey, he trembled in the chilly wind like a leaf. “May I use your shower, please?”

 

 _No,_ Will thought _, not the hounds of hell. Just one_. There were great, dark splotches of dried blood on Chilton, and in combination with Jack's urgent call, Will could guess at their origins.

 

“Sure,” he said, holding the door open.

 

Fifteen minutes later, sitting in a chair and watching Chilton hastily pack his dirtied clothing into a single carry-all, Will wondered if there was a special god out there, holding their mighty hand over sadistic cannibals. If there wasn't, then Hannibal must have planned this particular game longer than originally assumed – far longer than he'd played with Will.

 

“I was consulting on the Ripper case when Miriam Lass disappeared.” Gone was the suave tone of voice, that slick, self-assured expression. A part of Will enjoyed the sight; Chilton had done nothing to endear himself to Will. “I've been a part of the case since before you, before Hannibal Lecter, before Miriam. I had access to case files! I would know everything the Ripper would need to know. I have the same _profile_ as Hannibal Lecter – same medical and psychological background. We are both doctors of note in our field. Of course it would be me!”

 

Will looked to the side. He couldn't decide if he wanted to chuckle or scoff. Of course it was going to be Chilton. He'd warned the other man, hadn't he?

 

“Hannibal was never going to kill me.” Chilton laughed, sounding close to hysterics. “I'm his patsy!” He took a deep breath, making a visible effort to calm himself down. “I have to leave the country. I am leaving the country.”

 

“If you run, you look guilty.”

 

“You didn't run and you looked plenty guilty!” Chilton attacked his bag again. “Abel Gideon was _half-eaten_ in my guest room. I have _corpses_ on my property. You just threw up an ear!”

 

Will tried to reason with him, stalling. “There's an APB on you right now. They've cancelled credit cards, they're tracing the phone -”

 

“I have cash and I tossed my phone. Jack Crawford thinks I killed two agents, three agents. Do you know what tends to happen to people who do that? Shoot on -”

 

The dogs started barking again. Chilton trailed off mid-sentence, staring out the window into the front yard of the house. Will couldn't see, but he heard the car drive up, and he knew who it was. He'd called Jack while Chilton was in the shower.

 

He owed Chilton nothing, after all.

 

He didn't move from his chair, not even when Chilton, with the imprecise handhold of a man who'd never touched a gun, pulled one on him. Then, Will allowed himself the belittling laugh. “You're not a killer, Frederick.”

 

Heavy footsteps came clomping toward the front door. Chilton turned tail and ran, heading into the back rooms of Will's house. The slam of the back door echoed the slam of the front door cracking into the wall.

 

Jack arrived like a steam train. “Where is he?”

 

Will crossed one leg over the other. He couldn't help digging, just a little. “You realize that this all fits a little _too -_ ”

 

“Where. Is. He.”

 

No use arguing with Jack, not when he was like this. Will wasn't really in the mood, either. Whether or not Jack shot a fleeing Chilton made no difference; Chilton _was_ a patsy, thoroughly indicated as the Chesapeake Ripper from what Will had gleaned from the man's stumbling narration of the scene at his house. Dead or alive, he was going down: if Hannibal had devoted even one iota of the same attention to detail to Chilton's downfall as he had to Will's, there was no saving him.

 

Least of all from Jack, who wanted the Ripper caught so badly he was blind to so much else.

 

“Went out the back door,” Will said, and pointed.

 

*

 

Jack didn't shoot Chilton. The small heap of misery that had once been one of Baltimore's most renowned psychiatrists was driven away in the back of a black Jeep.

 

“You want in on this,” Jack kept repeating, following Will from room to room while the forensics team descended on the bathroom and the hallway, taking fingerprints, scraping residue of blood out of the bottom of the bathtub, collecting hairs Chilton had left behind.

 

“No, I don't.”

 

“Damn it, Will!” Crawford's angry shout was followed by a moment of profound silence, as everyone currently loitering on Will's property stopped what they were doing and looked up. “We got him. We _got_ him. Chilton is the guy who set you up!”

 

“So he did. And yes, you have him. What do you need me for?”

 

“I want you to conduct the interview with him.”

 

“No.”

 

“Will...”

 

“No, Jack. I quit, remember? I'm only just beginning to recover, and you want me to crawl back into the mind of the sadistic, cannibalistic serial killer who was free to play his games with me for _weeks_.”

 

Jack snarled at a couple of nearby agents to get back to work, took Will by the arm, and drew him into a corner. “I want the case against Chilton to be airtight. I need you there to make sure it _is._ ”

 

Will realized Jack wasn't going to let him go on that one. He wouldn't put it past the other man to throw Will over his shoulder and carry him all the way back to Quantico.

 

He would have loved to de-construct the castle of lies built around Chilton – not for Chilton's sake, but to show everyone that the psychiatrist was just another name in a long list, a stitch in the shroud Hannibal pulled over everyone, blinding them.

 

But.

 

Possessiveness reared its head. Unravelling that shroud was Will's task, and his alone. He was going to do it by himself, without Jack, without the FBI, without the same people who'd called him crazy, who had doubted him.

 

“You don't want me to sit in on this. I would not get you the results you _want_.”

 

Jack's eyes widened with disbelief. “You don't believe Chilton's the Ripper.” He let go of Will's arm as though he'd burned himself. “You still think Hannibal -”

 

Will said nothing, only shrugged.

 

Without another word, Jack steamrolled off.

 

Will had five minutes of peace, aware he was the subject of a lot of curious stares. Then Zeller, looking uncomfortable, joined him in the corner. “I owe you an apology.”

 

“You owe me nothing.”

 

Undaunted, Zeller went on, “I thought you were a killer. I wouldn't hear anything else, so I wouldn't consider anything else. I'm sorry.”

 

It was the first, real apology Will had heard since his release from the BSHCI. “The evidence against me was compelling.”

 

Zeller's face showed relief. He held out his hand, still blue-gloved from processing Will's bathroom and the hallway for traces of Chilton's presence. “Yes, it was, but -”

 

“But that didn't stop Beverly from looking.”

 

Will walked away, ignoring the outstretched hand. A cheap shot, childish – there was a voice in his head, sounding like Hannibal's, chiding, _Rude, Will_ – but it made _him_ feel better.

 

*

 

Jack called him again in the evening. Chilton was dead. Miriam Lass, observing the interview with the 'Chesapeake Ripper' while Alana conducted it, had short-circuited and shot Chilton through the observation window, a bull's-eye hit just under Chilton's left eye.

 

“Are you laughing?” Jack asked, incredulously.

 

“Yes,” Will said, “I am.”

 

*

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hokay. *prods this Will Graham with a stick* I've reread this like ten times. My goal here isn't to make Will sound like a whiny brat, but I think he deserves to indulge in some, admittedly rather childish, FUCK ALL OF YOU! attitude. So if I've overshot that goal by like a mile or a thousand, point it out. 
> 
> Honestly, if I'd been in his shoes? I would've told Jack and the others where to shove it, and I WOULD have pulled that trigger on Hannibal, just to get him the fuck out of my life, and to hell with the consequences.


	3. 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been added/modified! 
> 
> I realize Will probably reads as 'all over the place' in this chapter, but bear with me: I know what I'm doing anditwillhopefullymakesenseintheend. I'm trying to reflect, at least a little, the state of mind he was in after his release from the BSHCI - all that anger, but also the confusion and the conflicting feelings that ended up stalling, or literally keeping him treading on the spot in Mizumono, unable to move either way. 
> 
> TL;DR: author thinks she's being clever.

**3.**

 

Guilt came slowly, an unwelcome visitor creeping into Will's daily routine, which now consisted of a great deal of time spent by himself, with only the dogs and his thoughts for company. For once, Jack respected his wishes. There were no calls.

 

The angry momentum carrying him from his cell at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane lost its driving force by Wednesday.

 

Reality set in.

 

Will had killed a man. Not in self-defence, or to save a life. Murder. Clark Ingram had been a misogynistic serial-killing _pig_ , but that was no justification for what Will had done.

 

_Wasn't it?_

 

He tried to banish the guilt to the back of his mind. He wasn't very successful.

 

On Thursday, he woke hyperventilating and sweaty, the sheets twisted between cramping fingers, the dogs lined up at the foot end of his bed, a silent congregation of concerned spectators. He couldn't remember much of the dream, only that he'd been standing in a hall of mirrors, afraid to see what the reflections would show.

 

Hannibal's creation? Or Will Graham, freed of society-imposed restrictions, embracing the darkness within?

 

Was there even a difference, now that Will had already given in to that side of himself once?

 

 _How far are you willing to go?_ Will wondered, staggering into the shower. Standing under the hot spray, he let his thoughts roll out. _And what are you going to do?_

 

If he wanted to catch Hannibal, to drag his true self out into the open, Will needed to give him something he wanted. Life bait. That meant he had to understand what Hannibal was after.

 

Surely Hannibal would not be able to resist the temptation of exploring the dark side he'd coaxed forth in Will: it was all Hannibal had worked for. He probably thought he'd been doing Will a favour – no, he did believe he _had_ been doing Will a favour, that much was certain.

 

The _why_ remained elusive, an unanswered blank. Or was it?

 

Will had told Chilton that Hannibal wanted a friend.

 

Creating a monster and setting it free among the general population would only lead to more cases for Jack and the FBI to solve, always with the danger of Will being caught, of either of them being caught, lurking on the horizon; if Hannibal wanted not a friend but a _pet_ , surely there were better, less wilful and more predictable candidates out there than Will Graham.

 

Will had defied Hannibal often, over the course of their acquaintance. Pushing for brain scans when Hannibal insisted the cause of the time loss, the hallucinations, was psychological. Sticking to Jack, when in retrospect it was so clear now Hannibal _had_ been trying to alienate them from one another. That Will had sent a killer after him should have clued Hannibal in to the fact that Will wasn't a docile puppet, eagerly dancing on the ends of someone else's strings.

 

If it was the danger of the unpredictable that excited and attracted Hannibal, well, then he'd picked the wrong candidate entirely. Guilt or no guilt, Will knew he had very few reservations left, where the lengths he was willing to go to in order to catch Hannibal were concerned. He'd made no secret of there being a part of him that wanted to see Hannibal dead, at their last meeting.

 

Apparently he had even fewer reservations left for the killers he encountered. Or, at least one of them. Clark Ingram had been a boil on the face of the earth. Guilt welled up; Will forced his thoughts back on track.

 

 _He wants to be my friend_. _Why?_

 

_Because he's lonely._

 

Will inhaled a nose-full of water. Coughing, he shut off the shower. Hannibal Lecter, loney? _Yeah, as if_.

 

But Hannibal _was_ lonely, wasn't he?

 

Loneliness was a concept Will wasn't unfamiliar with: he was himself a man apart, thanks to his empathy disorder. Though there were – or had been – people around whom he felt he could open up a little, there always remained that nagging certainty that no one truly understood what it meant to assume a killer's point of view. How dark and cold a place that could be, inside his mind. How difficult to let go of.

 

Uniqueness wasn't always such a great state of being. What use uniqueness, if no one understood? If no one _saw_?

 

Hannibal Lecter was indeed unique. A cannibal, who had been preying on the flock for years, undetected, uncaught. A man of singular tastes, who enjoyed the company of the cultured, the _refined_ , as much as he enjoyed swatting pests. He'd climbed one step further on the food chain, and what a lonely, lofty perch that had to be. He could feed the guests of his elaborate dinner parties, but never show them just what it was they were moaning over in delight.

 

They would not understand.

 

 _And along comes Will Graham, who sees beyond the thin veil of humanity. Who understands why they do what they do. Who can, if not_ sympathize _, then at least_ empathize _with the monsters._

 

Will stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. There was his _why_. He hadn't been a pet project, a randomly picked victim, a whim.

 

Hannibal had known exactly what he was doing. He'd chosen the one person who could _see_ him.

 

It was a strangely flattering, to think of it that way.

 

It was also sickening, because it said more about _Will_ than it said about Hannibal.

 

*

 

Friday came to soon, and it came with news of a snow storm approaching. With his standing appointment set at 7:30pm, Will felt it was better if he left for Baltimore early, in case the forecast was wrong and the storm reached Maryland in the evening. He couldn't not go; it was his turn to make a move. Hannibal had sought him out once, but Will couldn't count on him doing that again.

 

The ball was in Will's court. Hannibal already suspected this was all a plan, which left Will with little more than the single option of going forward and convincing him it _wasn't_ , when in truth it was.

 

How to catch a fish that had seen the hook inside the lure?

 

 _Make the lure something he can't resist_.

 

On Bayshore Avenue, Will waited in his car for forty-five minutes, watching the door to Hannibal's office. It would be warmer in the waiting room, not to forget more comfortable, but he remained where he was. He felt as though he was observing the cave of a predatory animal, some creature that was taking a far more personal interest in him than previously assumed, and that was enough to help him ignore the cold slowly settling in under his clothes.

 

Five minutes to his appointment time, he crossed the street. The door opened while he was on the stairs. Will ignored the woman who stepped out, save for the most fleeting of visual impressions – expensive-looking coat, slim, long hair.

 

She didn't ignore him, though. “I tend to walk up to this building in a very similar state.”

 

The second impression yielded more detail: _very_ expensive-looking coat, tailored to fit, perfectly done make-up, a pretty face with large, luminous eyes over a slightly pouty mouth. Late twenties, early thirties. Attractive, but with a jarring edge under all that beauty, something that had nothing to do with what she _looked_ like. “What state would that be?”

 

“Anticipation, mixed with dread. You must be a patient of Doctor Lecter's.” She looked him up and down. “You look familiar. I either know you, or I know _of_ you...”

 

Will couldn't tell if she was flirting with him, or if she was just trying to start a conversation. Then he remembered where she could have seen his face before. Out there on his own in Wolf Trap, it was easy to forget that he'd been something of a celebrity, for a while. “I'm the guy who _didn't_ kill all those people.”

 

He left her standing there, all but slamming the door in her face. Something about the woman struck him as odd, or maybe he was just drawing too much from his personal encounters with the offspring of affluent families during his childhood: that arrogance, taught or absorbed.

 

...and maybe, he was just a little on edge. Whoever the woman was, she'd neither insulted nor downtalked to him. It wasn't right, to project his personal misgivings onto a total stranger, just because she looked like she came from money. Will took a calming breath, slipped off his coat, folding it over his arm.

 

The door to the waiting room opened. “Good evening, Will.”

 

“Anticipation, mixed with dread.”

 

Hannibal lifted an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

 

“Just something the woman said. The one who just walked out of here.”

 

Hannibal stood aside. “Ah, Miss Verger.”

 

The name rang a bell. “From the meatpacking dynasty?”

 

“The very same. Please, come in.”

 

The office struck Will as intimately familiar and foreign territory at the same time. He laid his coat over the settee, his mind caught up in memory. The last time he set foot in Hannibal's office, he'd been armed, a fugitive. He couldn't remember if he'd begged Hannibal to take him to Minnesota, to find out what had happened to Abigail, or forced him at gunpoint. All Will remembered of that time was standing in the Hobbs' kitchen, and the terrible, draining, crushing revelation of having been a pawn.

 

Will was no one's pawn. Not any more. “Why did you accept me as your patient? I tried to have you killed.”

 

“I already told you. I believe it's in your best interest.” Hannibal took a seat in his customary armchair, one leg folded over the other. “Perhaps it's in both our interest. The friendship that we had is over. We need to move past forgiveness and apology, if we are to start fresh.”

 

 _Friendship_. There it was. How Hannibal could call what they'd had a friendship was beyond Will. It might have been, in his eyes, but Will certainly hadn't been feeling the warm glow of affection there, in the end. And forgiveness? Starting over? Will didn't know whether to laugh or cry. “I haven't apologized.”

 

“You offered me dinner.” Hannibal smiled a barely-there smile. “I will take that as an apology, coming from the man who seems to want to turn into a hermit. I hope you'll let me return the kindness, in the near future.”

 

Will managed to suppress a shudder. He couldn't count the occasions Hannibal had plied him with food, starting all the way back at their second meeting, at the motel. _Protein scramble._ Those sausages had likely been made from the remains of Cassie Boyle. “I think I'll pass, thanks.”

 

Hannibal gave him a frown. “Still having doubts about what I serve at my table?”

 

No doubts at all. What would Baltimore's elite think, if they learned they'd been dining on the remains of Hannibal's victims? Briefly, Will contemplated the meaning of that particular behaviour. Was Hannibal trying to lighten the burden of guilt, by sharing the spoils of his hunts with his peers and friends, thus making them unwitting accomplices to his crimes?

 

No, Hannibal didn't choose his victims randomly. In his mind, they deserved to die. Wastes of good air, just as Clark Ingram had been. There would be no guilt associated with any of the 'pests' he'd swatted.

 

Will took his seat opposite the other man, suppressing a jolt of envy. He almost wished he felt the same. “I'm not interested in talking about dinner.”

 

“Very well. We could -”

 

The phone rang. The sudden noise, as melodious and faint as it was, made Will jerk where he sat.

 

Hannibal rose and swiftly crossed to the large desk. “I apologize, Will. This is my emergency number. I must take this call.”

 

Amusing, that the man who ate his victims had set up a telephone line for distressed patients to call him. Listening to Hannibal's soft greeting of the caller with half an ear, Will tried to come up with a plan on how to proceed. They could sit here and trade hidden barbs and half-truths until the century turned, and it would get Will exactly nowhere. He needed a hook, something that would pique Hannibal's interest and get him to lower his guards. They -

 

“Will?” Hannibal appeared at the side of Will's armchair. “It's Jack Crawford on the line.”

 

Jarred, Will stared at the phone. “Jack has the emergency number your patients use?”

 

“I did not say it was for my patients. All my friends have this number. It's not listed in the telephone book.” Hannibal's smile was almost paternal. “You have it, too.”

 

He held the phone out.

 

Reluctantly, Will took it. “Jack.”

 

Jack pitched his voice low so it wouldn't carry. He sounded worried. “Would you care to tell me what you're doing at Doctor Lecter's office, if you still think he's the Chesapeake Ripper?”

 

“I've resumed my therapy.”

 

“You _what_?” Will didn't repeat himself. Jack's silence was ominous, like a storm brewing on the horizon. Finally, he audibly swallowed down what he was going to say. “We'll talk about that later. I could use your help. We have a -”

 

Will held the phone back out to Hannibal without waiting for Jack to finish. For a long moment, Jack's voice continued, too faint to understand a word. Hannibal's expression offered no clue about what he thought of Will's behaviour; Will thought he could read subtle misgivings there, but whether it was aimed at Will's rude behaviour or the underlying cause of Will's refusal to talk to Jack, was up for grabs.

 

Hannibal took the phone, covering the mouth piece with his palm. “Excuse me for a moment, please.”

 

“Take all the time you need.” Will rose, unwilling to listen in. “I'm going to use the rest room.”

 

When he returned, Hannibal sat on the edge of the desk, feet crossed at the ankles. The phone was nowhere in sight. “Jack asked me to meet him at a crime scene.” He held Will's gaze calmly. “He invited us both. I will not cut your hour short, however. I told him I would meet him when we are done here. Or,” Hannibal cocked his head just so, “we could go there together.”

 

'No, thanks' was on the tip of Will's tongue, yet stalling there. Mandatory psychological evaluation aside, the starting point of his and Hannibal's convoluted relationship had been the crimes – the criminals Will hunted, and the effect they had on him. The Minnesota Shrike had brought them together. It had swiftly changed, of course, the more Will opened himself up, the more of himself he made _available_ to Hannibal.

 

More often than not, Will had used the other man as a sounding board, bouncing ideas off of him, getting a different point of view on a situation, another angle to approach a pathology. It had given Hannibal a good scratch mark where he could sink his claws into Will, providing a – seemingly genuine – stability in return that Will had taken for granted for so long.

 

Will really did not want to start consulting for the FBI again. His feelings on the matter hadn't changed.

 

But he needed something here – some common ground, some flat level for them to start talking. At least, to start talking in ways that went beyond half-truths, hints and metaphor. Going to Hannibal for therapy Will didn't think he really needed wasn't going to work for very long. Hannibal was already wary of his intentions. If Will wanted Hannibal to let down his guard far enough for his true nature to show, he would have to make him comfortable. He had to give him _access_.

 

Their relationship had begun with a crime. Now, there was another one.

 

Besides, Will was curious. What kind of case was it, that caused Jack to call in another, albeit not-so-fragile teacup, now that his favourite one had ostensibly shattered? The last call of this nature had given Will Clark Ingram.

 

Will tried to ignore the sensation crawling in his belly, whispering _opportunity_ , and grabbed his coat. “Let's go.”

 

*

 

The crime scene was a truck stop on the outskirts of Baltimore. The crime itself was a mess: a man's body atop a truck's driver's cabin, literally ripped apart. There was so much blood the truck's front was all but awash in it. It looked black, in the moonlight, and the associations came quickly: night, moon, instinctual urges.

 

The truck stops's night shift cashier, a ruddy-faced young man shaking like a leaf in the back of the mandatory ambulance, had called in Baltimore PD after discovering his last customer. He'd gone out to check up on him in case the trucker had fallen asleep, an easy death sentence in below-zero temperature, in an unheated vehicle.

 

Will skirted the perimeter of the scene, walking a long round around the large vehicle and its gruesome decoration. Risky, to kill that close to a well-lit, moderately occupied place. The victim must have been screaming, for a short while at least.

 

Jimmy Price's voice carried through the night. “What kind of animal doesn't take anything from its kill? Look – liver, lungs, stomach, spleen, heart – all accounted for. It's a mess, but nothing's _missing_.”

 

Will was too far away to hear if anyone answered Price's declaration. He rounded the back of the truck and nearly bumped into something large and unmoving that wore a hat and an end-of-the-world expression.

 

“Not now, Jack.” Will attempted to side-step.

 

“Yes, now.” Jack took a firm hold of Will's arm. “Why are you back in therapy with Lecter?”

 

“I'm working through some issues.”

 

“Your last _issues_ nearly ended with Hannibal dying.” Grim-faced, Jack stepped even closer. “Am I going to have to put an observational detail on you, to make sure he's not going to end up crucified again?”

 

As much as it stung to hear Jack so openly question Will's state of mind, his intentions, Will couldn't find fault in the other man's attitude. There might have been moments of doubt for Jack, regarding Hannibal's innocence in the Chesapeake Ripper case, but Miriam Lass' reaction to Chilton had pretty much put the last nails into that particular coffin. Jack was an evidence man.

 

The only evidence Will had was all in his mind: flashes of memory, gut-wrenching scenes of his trust betrayed.

 

There was also Jack's wife, Bella. It didn't take much of a stretch of the imagination to see Hannibal offer seemingly sincere support to a man who not only had to juggle a stressful job, but also the slow and painful deterioration of his spouse. Regardless of his true intentions, Hannibal was good at that – appearing as a pillar of strength to people in need. Just like he had to Will.

 

For a short moment, Will was tempted to divulge his true intentions. He could see Hannibal, standing far away out of earshot and talking to the young man in the back of the ambulance. Now was the perfect moment to attempt to sow seeds of doubts in Jack's mind, convince him -

 

Hannibal glanced in Will's direction. He said something to the sobbing young man, then made his way to where Will and Jack were standing.

 

“My intentions,” Will said, shaking his arm free, “are to regain my footing. Hannibal knows my problems, and he agreed to take me on as a patient. Officially, this time. That's all you need to know, Jack.”

 

Hannibal reached them. Will didn't give him a chance to speak, though Hannibal could undoubtedly pick up the tension tightening the air, and stepped around Jack. Deliberately, he positioned himself slightly _behind_ Hannibal.

 

It was degrading, to have to pretend he was using Hannibal as a shield, to literally put the other man between himself and Jack. At the same time, Will saw Hannibal straighten up ever so slightly, as if that was a role he was more than willing to take on.

 

Jack saw it, too, of course. He wasn't the agent-in-charge of the FBI's Behavioural Analysis Unit for no reason. He glanced from Will, to Hannibal, and back again, frowning at first, then with a treacherous serenity. “Got any _insights_ to share?”

 

Changing track wasn't as hard as it had been, before, but it wasn't easy, either. Particularly not in this case. Will looked at the snow, spattered with blood; tried not to look at the bits and pieces the forensic team were still collecting in buckets and bags. There was no rhyme to the kill, only a faint echo of blood lust, the desire rip something apart. “Best guess? This wasn't an animal.”

 

“Best 'guess'?”

 

“Can't rule it out until we have proof, but if it's an animal, the only one I can think of that could do that kind of damage in the time between the truck driver leaving the station and the cashier coming to check on him, is a bear. Or a wolf, maybe. But a wolf couldn't climb that high.” Will eyed the driver's cabin. “I didn't see any animal tracks in the immediate area, did you? Also, wolves and bears don't eat where they kill. They would have dragged the body off.”

 

“A rabid animal attacks victims at random and doesn't eat any part of them,” Hannibal interjected.

 

Snow crunching under boots announced the arrival of Jim Price. He nodded at Will and Hannibal in greeting. “We're finished gathering it all up. I was right, there's nothing missing. Cause of death can't be determined – the victim had so many fatal wounds, we can't say which one killed him. But here's something interesting: we found the same wound pattern on a series of livestock mutilations in the area. Evisceration, dismemberment, yet everything accounted for. Sound familiar to anyone?”

 

Serial killers sometimes tested themselves on defenceless targets, like cats and dogs, before they moved on to bigger prey. It was part of the Macdonald Ttriad. Although J.M. Macdonald's theory, first put forward in a 1963 paper in the  _American Journal of Psychiatry,_ had been mostly debunked, it was still taught and believed. Animal mutilations, especially during the formative years, had been considered a part of a triad of behavioural characteristics marking the hedging of fledgling killers, bed-wetting past a certain age being another one, obsessive fire-setting the last.

 

Will dipped his nose under the upturned collar of his coat for warmth, focused inward. “Livestock mutilations, that was practise.”

 

Jack drew a face. “So he's going to kill again.”

 

Will would. He'd – the _killer_ wouldn't be satisfied with just this one kill. This had been a test run, and it had been successful. “He's, ah, urbanizing his animal, moving it closer to the city. Adapting it for bigger prey.”

 

Hannibal added, “And he's not denying its natural instincts. He's evolving them.”

 

Will was fairly certain _that_ particular observation wasn't just meant for the killer, but also for him.

 

*

 

When they left, the wind had begun to pick up, chasing snowflakes across the sky in chaotic patterns. Will fell asleep on the drive back to Baltimore proper, lulled by the purr of Hannibal's Bentley, the warmth, the river-like cadence of notes tinkling from the speakers. He'd forgotten how tiring it could be, standing somewhere in the middle of nowhere looking at a killer's tableau of destruction.

 

He had a short, disjointed dream about hiding in the shadows, waiting for prey to arrive. Anticipation-fuelled giddiness coursed through his veins, elevating his his pulse.

 

Then frenzy, and blood, and the golden rush of victory. Freedom. Fulfilment.

 

Will jerked awake, finding Hannibal far too close to him. His first instinctual reaction was to lash out – what was the man doing, _smelling_ him again? - but Hannibal drew away as if nothing had happened, letting go of Will's shoulder he'd been shaking gently, and resettled in his seat.

 

“Do you wish to come inside?”

 

Will had tensed up so violently, relaxing his muscles made him shake. He covered it by rubbing both hands over his face, willing his heart to slow down. “I'm pretty sure my hour's over, doctor.” He looked out the side window, at the familiar sight of Hannibal's office on Bayshore Avenue. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep on you.”

 

“You probably needed it. Do you still have trouble sleeping?”

 

“No, I...” Actually, Will had been sleeping soundly lately, compared to the sleepwalking episodes and the nightmares of before. He wasn't going to count that one dream about the mirror hall as the start of a new trend. “I've been sleeping fine.”

 

“Good.” Hannibal appeared to be genuinely pleased. “What did it feel like, stepping into this killer's mind?”

 

Sleep had weakened the filters between Will's brain and mouth. “Liberating.” Immediately, he wished he could take back that word. It wasn't appropriate.

 

But it was true.

 

Whoever the killer was, he'd cast off his normal skin, replacing it with animal hide for a few hours. He'd given in to instinct, let loose of all constraints, and followed his...urges, yes, but there was more to it. This killer didn't think of himself as human – not in the one head, two arms, two legs way, at least. His human skin was the disguise of something much more powerful, hidden inside.

 

And tonight, he'd set his inner self free on worthy prey.

 

_He's not denying its natural instincts. He's evolving them._

 

“Giving in to natural inclinations can be a very rewarding process, good for one's mental health,” Hannibal said. “If we deny ourselves our true self for too long, it can destroy us.”

 

Will huffed. “Giving in to _that_ kind of natural inclination is destructive in itself. He's setting himself up to spend the rest of his life in prison, when he's caught. He sentenced himself to a place where they'll make damn sure he's not going to give in to any 'natural' inclinations.”

 

“But is it wrong? To want to realize one's true potential?”

 

_No. It feels good._

 

Upset, but at the same time not surprised at the route his thoughts were taking, Will unbuckled his seat belt. Accepting there was a destructive side to one's personality wasn't the same as giving in to it. The _animal_ that had killed the truck driver had no place in society, and it wasn't going to thrive out in the wild, either. It was doomed to fail – the killer would either be caught, or he would run into someone he couldn't overpower. Either way, he was going to end up _not himself_.

 

Not like Hannibal, who'd carved himself a niche, and filled it perfectly.

 

Will felt another surge of envy, and decided it was enough for today. “It's late. I want to get home before that storm hits.” That wasn't even a lie: already, the snow was coming down harder. He still had an hour to drive, back to Wolf Trap. “Next Friday?”

 

Hannibal nodded. “Next Friday. Have a good night, Will.”

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal's office address: 687 Bayshore Ave, Suite 200, Baltimore, MD 21161. Telephone number 443-555-0159, fax number 443-555-0158.  
> Source: [Bryan Fuller's Twitter](https://twitter.com/BryanFuller/status/250997130297212929/photo/1)
> 
> Hannibal's home address: 5 Chandler Square, Baltimore  
> Source: [Film locations for "Red Dragon"](http://www.movie-locations.com/movies/r/RedDragon.html#.U6Ef1PmSwYk)
> 
> The Macdonald Triad: [Wikipedia's my friend sometimes](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Macdonald_triad)


	4. 4.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens. Those reading this for the Hannigram: it's in its budding stages. Tiny buds. Very tiny buds. You did see the Slow Build/Slow Burn tags, right?
> 
> Please note that I took - and will continue to take - some minor liberties with Margot. Margot Verger in the book _Red Dragon_ is a lesbian and a bodybuilder, in a stable relationship with her partner Judy. She works as Mason Verger's bodyguard, and maintains their relationship because he promised her he would donate sperm, so Margot and Judy could have a child. While I _like_ the Margot Verger of the Hannibal TV series, I prefer the book version.

**4.**

 

Snow came down like it was the end of the world. Will spent all Saturday morning shovelling his driveway free or digging his smaller dogs out of snow banks. He packed a bag and took them on a trip, hiking to the nearest lake, and returned in the evening, with no fish to show for all the effort he'd gone to, but in tremendously good spirits.

 

The dogs were exhausted and happy. So was Will, even as he stood in his kitchen with fingers that ached from the prolonged exposure to the cold, reheating leftover stew. He fed the dogs, then watched them curl up close to the fireplace. Perhaps if he'd had more of this, these stretches of peace where he didn't have to think about serial killers and victims, he could have balanced better against the magnetic pull of his day job. At least, until Hannibal got involved.

 

In hindsight, there were so many things he could have, should have done differently.

 

*

 

On Tuesday, he went shopping. The local newspaper on display by the check-out showed an article about a couple found dead at a park, on Sunday night. Will bought a copy and read it in the parking lot. The picture accompanying the article showed a copse of trees, a cold camping fire place, and uneven chunks of something scattered in a wide radius.

 

Arbitrarily, Will thought about Freddie Lounds, and how she'd certainly have managed to take a better picture. He hadn't heard from the tabloid journalist recently, aside from the one email she'd sent him, and hoped Freddie had lost interest in him, now that _he_ wasn't featured on the front pages of the newspapers.

 

The article didn't mention names, but stated that the FBI had gotten involved, and drew a careful link to the truck driver found dead, last week Friday. Will squinted at the picture again. Two people this time, a man and a woman, different location, same destructive M.O.

 

Jack hadn't called him. Will told himself he wasn't disappointed.

 

A call came the same day, though, in the evening. It was Jim Price. “We pretty much ruled it out already, but trace samples confirmed it: it wasn't an animal. If it was, cave bears suddenly stopped being extinct after 28,000 years. That's the closest we could match the bite radius to.”

 

Will stood in the hallway, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Trace samples?”

 

“Bone fragments and dust. The analysis isn't yet complete, but I'd say we're looking at old bones here, possibly fossilized. We also found hydraulic oil in the truck driver's wounds and on his clothes. Guy put up a fight, for as long as he could. Don't know yet about the couple, we're still piecing them together. Literally.”

 

Will envisioned himself building a suit of bones. He'd have a workshop, where he could tinker in private and safety. There'd be a mirror, full-length, so he could see the finished product – his second, _true_ skin. He'd be familiar with this kind of engineering; he was someone with a knack for mechanics and a penchant for old bones.

 

He noticed Price was saying something. “Sorry, what?”

 

“I was asking if you're officially back with us. Back in the field.”

 

“No, I'm...” Will trailed off. He wasn't. And here he was, listening to Price telling him details of the latest case. That in itself should have alerted him; they'd never done this, before, keeping the exchange of information restricted to actual work hours. There was only one person who could have put Price up to that. “Did Jack tell you to call me?”

 

“Jack? No. Doctor Lecter was here this morning, but you weren't. Since you were at the crime scene together on Friday, I figured...” Price fell silent. Will could literally hear the penny drop. Sounding uncomfortable, Price said, “I'm sorry, Will. I made assumptions. Forget everything I just told you, eh?”

 

The apology sounded sincere, as did the discomfort. Price could get into real trouble, divulging case-related information to someone who wasn't officially affiliated with the FBI, though Will could imagine Jack wasn't going to be _too_ upset about that blunder. As much as Will _didn't_ want to start consulting for the FBI again, he'd gone to the crime scene eagerly enough, and then talked shop there with Jack, just like old times. It wasn't Jim Price's mistake to draw the wrong conclusions from that.

 

“Did Hannibal say anything interesting, while he was there?”

 

Price laughed nervously. “Er, I'm not sure I should give you any details. More than I already have, anyway. I'm really sorry. Just forget I called, okay?”

 

They said good bye.

 

*

 

Hannibal presented him with a glass of wine, on Friday. Studying Will's expression, he plucked the glass out of his hand again and took a small sip, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. Will was so shocked by the action – prim Hannibal Lecter, all but yanking the glass back, _rude_ – that he mutely watched.

 

“It's neither poisoned nor drugged.” Hannibal handed the glass back, settling into his armchair. “Would it put your mind at ease if I told you that I've no plans, or intentions, to harm you?”

 

Will snorted. Not much more Hannibal could do to him, was there? He set the glass on the small side table regardless. There was no way he'd put his mouth to anything Hannibal's lips had touched.

 

_Like Alana?_

 

The thought sprang at him unexpectedly and sat in his gut like a brick. He felt squeamish, just thinking about Alana that way – none of this was her fault. The most Will could accuse her of was falling in love with the wrong person, and that would be an incredibly shallow thing to do.

 

Hannibal reached for his own wine glass and took a delicate sip, watching Will over the rim of the glass. “What _would_ put you at ease? Seeing me behind prison bars, for the crimes you think I've committed? Or would you rather finish what Jack stopped you from doing, in Minnesota?” He rolled the thin stem of the glass between his fingers. “Do you fantasize about killing me, Will? You said a part of you wants to see me dead.”

 

The kid gloves seemed to have come off in a hurry. “You seem a little obsessed with that idea, Doctor Lecter.”

 

“Trust is vital between patient and therapist, and it goes both ways. I need to know if you intend to kill me.”

 

“If I wanted you dead, I'd have killed you when you came to Wolf Trap.”

 

“How would you do it?”

 

The question deserved contemplation. Will had thought about killing Hannibal – with a knife, with a gun. Fast. Easy. But if he really were to kill him, if the goal wasn't to take down the Chesapeake Ripper and expose Hannibal for what he was in the process, he'd prefer a more... _intimate_ approach.“With my hands.”

 

The answer seemed to satisfy Hannibal. “So you've finally accepted your capacity for violence.”

 

“I didn't reinvent the wheel. _Everyone_ has a capacity for violence.”

 

Hannibal smiled. “Yes. But nobody understands it quite like you do.”

 

Will heard, _nobody understands_ me _quite like you do_. Coming from Hannibal, that was praise. “Wasn't that the goal of my therapy? Acquainting me with my darker side?”

 

“The goal was to help you.”

 

“It did help me. All the way into the Baltimore State Hospital.”

 

Hannibal made a disapproving noise. “You still think I had something -”

 

“Stop right there.” It was time to lay down a cornerstone for their interactions from here on out, even if that meant he was potentially manoeuvring himself into a vulnerable position. Will would take that over the metaphors, the circling word games. They were so _tiring_. “You may have to pretend, but I don't.”

 

“No, you don't. Not with me.” Hannibal pursed his lips. “What am I pretending?”

 

“That what we had was ever anywhere close to a friendship. That my incarceration wasn't your fault.” Will ground his jaw. “That you didn't kill Abigail. I know you had something to do with it, with all of it. I remember sitting in this very chair, and you kneeling there, injecting me with something. I remember the lights. I remember the _tube_.”

 

The mere memory made Will's throat ache with phantom pain, made the bile rise from his stomach. He swallowed it down. Of all the things Hannibal had done to him, the violation of Will's body – his last line of defence, in some ways – hadn't shocked him much, compared to what had been done to his _mind._ Still, he wasn't going to forget or forgive that any time soon.

 

“I know you'll never admit to any of it – you can't. But I prefer sins of omission to outright lies. Don't _lie_ to me.”

 

If the anger, the pain showing through Will's words meant anything to Hannibal, he didn't let on. Calm and composed, he waited until Will was finished.

 

“Will you return the courtesy?” Hannibal wetted his lips. “Did you kill Clark Ingram?” When Will didn't answer, he added, “Jack suspects you did. Much of the evidence found at the grave site of these sixteen unfortunate women suggests Peter Bernadone didn't kill _any_ of them. I spoke to Mister Bernadone, last week. He still insists he is innocent of murder, and I am inclined to believe him. As is Jack.”

 

Lie.

 

Was it? Jack hadn't brought Ingram or Peter Bernadone up in conversation, the few times they'd talked since then. With a start, Will realized he hadn't thought about them, either – the guilt that had been plaguing him forgotten with the appearance of yet another killer on the horizon, this dangerous game he was playing with Hannibal.

 

Guilt wasn't important. He couldn't afford to let himself be sidetracked; Peter Bernadone was better off now, in professional psychiatric care, and Clark Ingram was better off dead. Will had done what he could for both of them. He needed to decide what he was going to do now, in this moment. Trust Hannibal to go straight for the throat, asking that question. “You're asking me to admit to murder.”

 

“You know the law, Will. I'm ethically bound to keep my patients' secrets to myself. I'd only be expected to step in if you were _planning_ a murder.”

 

“So what you're asking me is to trust you.”

 

Hannibal's silence was more eloquent than words.

 

Will chose his words carefully. “Jack will never find Clark Ingram. Not in this life.” There. No full confession, but enough of one to let Hannibal draw the correct conclusion: Will had to _know_ what had happened to the serial killer, to make that kind of statement.

 

A shudder ran through him, followed by a sensation of relief. He'd seen it a hundred times before: murderers breaking down and confessing their crimes and feeling relieved, the burden of guilt over taking a life lessened by sharing it with someone else. Yet it wasn't really guilt that weighed heavily on Will's mind; inexplicably, he felt as though he was letting Hannibal in on a secret, with no guarantee he would keep it.

 

He suspected he would – the whole point of getting Will out of the BSHCI had been to have access to him again. If Will were to be brought up on murder charges once more, this time there would be nothing Hannibal could do for him: with no body to claim as a victim of the Chesapeake Ripper's, there was no easy scapegoat.

 

Time to test that theory.

 

Hannibal for his part looked as if Will had told him the weather was nice. It was a carefully upheld mask, though; Will could tell, somehow, that Hannibal was very pleased at the moment. “I imagine you empathized strongly with Mister Bernadone, to become his avenging angel. Saw yourself in him.”

 

“I saw...partof myself in him.”

 

“The part deserted by others?”

 

“The part _betrayed_ by others.”

 

“So you took it upon yourself to punish Mister Bernadone's betrayer. You could have told Jack. But you didn't.”

 

Feeling the need to stretch his legs, Will rose. Hands in his pockets, he wandered through the office. Hannibal was aiming at a very specific point here: Peter's and Will's situations were so similar, one could arguably assume Will had killed Clark Ingram while imagining Hannibal in his stead.

 

Partially, that was true.

 

But only partially. Clark Ingram had been a different kind of monster. Will had spent five minutes in the man's company and recognized a total lack of empathy. Hannibal _had_ empathy, a very specific kind; he could just switch it off whenever it suited him, and especially when he acted as the Chesapeake Ripper. He wasn't _just_ a monster. Beneath the murder and the complete disregard of laws, taboos and morals was a man with a very human need: companionship. The whole of Will's plan was aimed at that man; it was the man Will needed to win over, as well as the monster.

 

Under Clark Ingram's skin had only been darkness. A need-driven, intelligent sadist, who killed what he coveted and was smart enough to leave no evidence behind, he would have gone on and on until he died of old age, or until someone got lucky and caught him.

 

“Some people,” Will said slowly, “don't deserve life.” He'd ended up at the stag statue, fingertips smoothing over the cold metal. His dreams had been blessedly stag-free, lately. “The world is better off without them.” Turning away from the statue, he walked along the wall. Under his breath, he added, “ _I_ am better off without them.”

 

Hannibal didn't comment on Will's change of attitude – that the Will Graham who'd quit Homicide because he couldn't pull the trigger, had hunted down a man, killed him because he could, not because he had to.

 

Will cocked his head, keeping Hannibal in his peripheral vision. “You should be pleased. You worked so hard to bring that out in me.”

 

“Are you certain you didn't do it yourself?”

 

Not an entirely invalid point. Hannibal may have groomed the darkness, but it was Will who'd stepped into the shadows. Nobody had held a gun to his head and forced him to go after Clark Ingram.

 

Will shrugged and slid back into his armchair. “It's out now. Maybe that's all that matters.” He picked up his wine and emptied the glass, then held a hand flat over it when Hannibal reached for the bottle to replenish it. “Tell me about Mr. Bone Suit.”

 

Hannibal refilled his own glass. “Looking for someone else the world would be better off without?”

 

He hadn't given much thought to it, beyond harbouring curiosity about the mechanics behind the beast, so to speak. Will wasn't that far gone to believe he could start making a hobby out of hunting down serial killers to disperse a rather final kind of justice; the world would be better off without them, yes, but he had no interest in turning into a monster himself, or ending up in prison a second time.

 

“I'm just curious about how the case is going. Jack seems to finally have gotten the hint that I'm not going to rejoin the ranks of the FBI.”

 

“How do you feel about that?”

 

“How do you _think_ I feel about that?”

 

Hannibal considered him. “You are angry, at the world, at me, at Jack, at Alana, at everyone you perceive to have deserted you before and during your trial. I stand by my earlier diagnosis: you are lashing out.”

 

Will lifted an eyebrow. “I'm taking long walks with my dogs. I renovated my house. You call that lashing out?”

 

“What would you call it?”

 

“Taking a break.”

 

Hannibal folded his fingers. “You are keeping yourself locked away from the people who care for you.”

 

That was a rather short list. Alana could come and go as she pleased, though Will guessed – knew – she wasn't too keen on his company at the moment. Jack had never respected Will's strategic retreat to Wolf Trap in the first place; he wasn't calling _now_ , but it was only a matter of time until that changed.

 

Will wasn't going to count Zeller or Price among his friends. They were work colleagues, like so many others Will had run into daily, at Quantico, at the BAU. They belonged to the great mass of people Will had talked at, not to. He respected their knowledge, that was it.

 

Beverly was dead.

 

So was Abigail. She hadn't been Will's _friend_ , but someone he cared for very much. Her loss still cut him, months after, a deep-seated longing that wasn't going to fade in a hurry, if ever. If Will had to pick and choose one name from a list to call out when, if people asked him why he'd done was he was doing, it would be her name.

 

Eyes burning, Will stared at his wine glass. He didn't want to see what expression, if any, was on the other man's face. Hannibal had confessed to harbouring paternal urges toward Abigail, and the times Will had observed them interact with each other had echoed with the same kind of tenderness and care Will had felt for her.

 

All of that had been a lie. She'd just been another tool to Hannibal, a prop in the orchestration of Will's fall from grace. “That's a rather short list. I don't want to talk about it, now.”

 

Hannibal's tone of voice sounded unaccustomedly gently. “As you wish.”

 

“Tell me about the killer.”

 

“His name is Randall Tier.”

 

Surprised, Will did look up. “They caught him?” There hadn't been anything on the news.

 

“Not as such. He was a patient of mine. I treated him as a teenage boy, for what I would describe as an identity disorder.” Hannibal dropped his gaze to his folded hands. “Randall was born in the wrong body, but it wasn't his gender that didn't fit him. He literally saw himself as an animal, trapped in a human body. That kind of acute species dysphoria can be devastating, and it is very hard to treat.”

 

A patient of Hannibal's, now a killer? That sounded too familiar for it to be a coincidence. “Did you tell Jack about him?”

 

“Not his name. That would be a direct violation of doctor-patient confidentiality. But Randall's case was well-documented before he was referred to me. There were some unfortunate...events during his adolescence. Injuries of younger siblings and schoolmates, if memory serves. He liked biting.”

 

Jack was going to find Tier. Hannibal would have dropped just enough hints for a hit in the system, to get the gears of the FBI rolling. Staring at the other man, Will wondered why Hannibal had revealed Tier's name to _him_ , but not to Jack. Was he hoping to entice Will into going after his former patient?

 

No, that would be too obvious.

 

Hannibal checked his watch, rising from his armchair with an apologetic smile. “I'm afraid your hour's up, Will. I would talk longer, but I have dinner reservations at nine.”

 

The session had been exhausting enough to make Will glad it was over.

 

At the door, Hannibal placed a hand on Will's shoulder. “When they arrest Mr. Tier – and they will – I believe you should have a more personal conversation with him. You could tell each other much about transformation.”

 

*

 

By the time Will arrived at his house, he was well beyond exhausted, and his thoughts were going in circles. It was snowing again, aggravating the usual weekend rush on the streets. He'd been stuck in a traffic jam just five miles outside Wolf Trap for about an hour due to a crash, and when his car had rolled past the accident site, there'd been blood and glass on the asphalt, ghoulishly reflecting the headlights of the highway patrol cars and the ambulance.

 

The car parked on the edge of his driveway garnered little more than a weary sigh from him. It wasn't Alana's car, or Jack's. Freddie drove a Jeep, as far as Will knew. He couldn't think of anyone else who'd call on him this late, especially not in this weather.

 

Some of Will's weariness faded as he parked his car and saw the driver's door of the other one open. The woman who came up to greet him was bundled up in a thick jacket, long hair tumbling over her shoulders, crowned with snowflakes.

 

It was Margot Verger. “You're a hard man to find, Mr. Graham.”

 

Will couldn't think of any reason why she'd come to see him. They had met once, on Hannibal's doorstep. Manners and mood blunted by the day's events, Will looked her up and down. Same expensive-looking clothes, tasteful make-up. He hoped Margot Verger wasn't some kind of groupie, eager to befriend a man who'd been on trial for killing a good half dozen people. The affluent had the strangest hobbies sometimes.

 

“You're not exactly anonymous yourself, Miss Verger.”

 

“Did you sneak a look inside Doctor Lecter's calendar?”

 

“Hannibal told me your name.” Will wasn't going to tell her that that had been enough. The Vergers owned one of the largest businesses in the area, and their names frequently appeared in the tabloid papers and the society rags.

 

Margot hunched her shoulders, hair flying in a gust of wind. “Do you have any whiskey? It's cold.”

 

Intrigued despite his misgivings about the late, unannounced visit, Will lead her into the house. Margot took off her jacket and hung it up herself, then knelt and petted the dogs as they came up. Not squeamish about dog hairs on expensive clothes, Will noted.

 

In his study, he poured two fingers of whiskey for both of them. “What is the heir to the Verger meatpacking dynasty doing at my door?”

 

“Well, my brother is the heir, not me. I have the wrong parts, and the wrong proclivity for parts.”

 

Margot's sex life was well-documented past the boundaries of good taste, in the less classy tabloid papers. She was an out and proud lesbian; Will dimly remembered some of his students, especially the less open-minded male ones, lamenting during breaks what a great loss it was, that a woman of her beauty and heritage played for the wrong team during.

 

Personally, he didn't care what team she played for. People were far too curious and judgemental about other peoples' sex lives, in his opinion. He was much more interested in the reason for her presence in his study. Will took a seat opposite her. “You didn't answer my question.”

 

“I came for a character reference. Patient to patient. What do you think of Doctor Lecter's therapy?”

 

She'd driven all the way out here for that? “Depends on what you're in therapy for.”

 

“Oh, I'm in therapy for all kinds of reasons. The Vergers slaughter 86,000 cattle a day, and 36,000 pigs, depending on the season. But that's just the public carnage.”

 

“What's your private carnage?”

 

For half a minute, Margot stared at him. It was the same kind of look people gave him when they tried to figure out how everything worked behind his brow, but Will could tell she was looking for different reasons. “I tried to kill my brother.”

 

There was far less about Mason Verger in the tabloid papers than there was about Margot. The blunt admission hinted at a very specific 'private carnage', and despite his general lack of interest in the private affairs of other people, Will was a little curious. “I assume he had it coming.”

 

“Did he ever.” Margot hesitated a moment. “What's your private carnage?”

 

Most of his public carnage had been talked and written about at length, before and during his trial. Margot had come for a character reference, patient to patient. She'd already looked him up and probably knew all about the murders he'd been accused of. Will could tell she was after something different. “I tried to murder Doctor Lecter.”

 

Her eyebrows climbed up, but it wasn't from shock. She looked intrigued. “Did _he_ have it coming?”

 

He wasn't going to give her that kind of information, and decided to evade. “What do you think?”

 

“I can't say that I know.”

 

Will grinned. “Neither can I.”

 

Margot grinned back. “We have some very similar issue.” She cleared her throat. “Though I doubt that Doctor Lecter gave you the same advice on murder that he gave me.”

 

Inwardly, a part of Will sat up. “What's that?”

 

“He said...if at first you don't succeed, try, try again.”

 

It was Will's turn to raise his eyebrows. He didn't comment, wavering between disbelief and something that could have been, in a very specific light, amusement. What would happen if _all_ of Hannibal's patients converged and started comparing notes? Margot had just given him proof for a suspicion he'd entertained earlier, during the session.

 

 _How many Margots have there been? How many Randalls?_ Will emptied his whiskey in a single swallow. _And how many Will Grahams?_

 

*

 

Noise woke Will, in the grey hours between night and morning. With a leaden lethargy that came from polishing off half a bottle of whiskey with Margot, who'd stayed till well after midnight, he heaved himself out of bed and nearly stepped on one of the dogs sleeping on the floor.

 

His head felt stuffed with cotton. What time was it? Will had never been very partial to alcohol; not only did it lower inhibitions, but it also tended to lower the barriers in his mind and razed his forts to the ground. The results of his impromptu binge - in the company of a woman he hardly knew; _careful, Graham, that's socialising_ \- still clung to him like sticky cobwebs as he stumbled into the hallway.

 

Headache. Nausea. Echoes of a dream. He grabbed the phone just as it began to ring again. The shadows in the hallway and beyond half-open doors were just deep enough to harbour hints of feathered stags, silent as the grave. Will rubbed grit from his eyes. “What?”

 

“Will.” It was Jack. His voice was gravelly, as though he too had just woken up. “Are you awake?”

 

“Jack, what -”

 

“There was an incident. Someone attacked Doctor Lecter in his home, an hour ago.”

 

Will was awake _now_ , heart beating in his throat. “Is he dead?”

 

The moment of silence that followed was full of sharp edges. “Christ, Will. _No_. He's in the hospital, and he's not going to die, if that's what you're hoping for. How soon can you be here?”

 

*

 

 


	5. 5.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor character death in this chapter. Consider yourself warned.

**5.**

 

Half past four in the night, Baltimore was a ghost town under a cover of slush and snow. Will told himself it wasn't worry that made him drive along the slick streets faster than the speed limit allowed. Hannibal in the hospital – it didn't seem real.

 

The man wasn't allowed to be hurt. He wasn't allowed to die. Will wasn't _done_ with him yet.

 

He parked across from the Johns Hopkins Emergency Centre. The night nurse on duty gave him directions to the second floor, ignoring his bedraggled appearance. As he rounded the corner, he heard voices: conversation hushed and fast. Jack Crawford and an agent Will didn't know stood outside the room at the end of the hallway, heads together. Both of them looked exhausted. Instead of his customary suit, Jack wore track pants and a fleece jacket, ill-fitting on his broad frame.

 

“What happened?” Will looked at the door. Sure enough, there was a name plate with _Lecter, H_. on it.

 

Jack dismissed the other agent and waited until he was out of earshot. “Where were you tonight?”

 

Will stared at him, brought up short by the brusque question. “I was at home.”

 

“Alone?”

 

So, that's how it was? Will couldn't say he was surprised by Jack's suspicious questions, but he was a little shocked by the openly displayed aggressiveness. This wasn't the Jack who'd promised Will he was bedrock; this was Jack Crawford, agent-in-charge of the BAU, a friend of Hannibal's, interviewing a possible suspect.

 

“Is that why you called me here? So you could arrest me on the spot?”

 

“Answer the question, please.”

 

“I had company till about a quarter to one.” Will squared his shoulders. Jack wasn't armed – not that Will could see, at any rate – but he'd positioned himself in front of Hannibal's door like a guard. Two could play that game. “Ask Margot Verger, if you don't believe me. You might want to hold off on calling her in the middle of the night, though. We shared a bottle of whiskey, and I'm pretty sure she had more than me.”

 

Jack blinked. “ _The_ Margot Verger? From the meatpacking business?”

 

“Yes. Now will you tell me happened?”

 

Jack was still eyeing him suspiciously, but he was beginning to deflate. They both knew Will couldn't have made the drive to Hannibal's house and then back to Wolf Trap between the time Margot Verger left and Jack called him there. “He was shot, in his home. Bullet went through his thigh. He called me instead of an ambulance, probably out of shock. I alerted the ERT and Baltimore PD, then I called you. They wheeled him into this room ten minutes before you arrived. Doctor's in there with him now.”

 

On the way to the hospital, Will had compiled a list of people who could have had it in for Hannibal, coming up with exactly one name: Randall Tier – but how would Mr. Bone Suit know his erstwhile therapist had ratted him out to the FBI? If they'd approached him, none of the agents working for Jack would be so stupid to reveal their sources. And Randall Tier wouldn't _shoot_ Hannibal. He'd attack him the way he had attacked the truck driver and the couple, demonstrating the success of his transformation.

 

Random, then? Hannibal had been out for dinner. Had he returned home and surprised a burglar?

 

That didn't sound right, either.

 

“What does the crime – what does his home look like? How'd the perpetrator get in?”

 

Jack leaned against the wall, hands on his knees. He seemed to have aged fifteen years in the space of two minutes – just a tired man now, worried for a friend. “Jimmied patio door. Baltimore PD's still there. I'll send in a team in the morning.” He shot Will a hopeful glance. “You wanna go take a look? I'll stay here, wait till he wakes up.”

 

Will didn't want to leave. He wanted to see Hannibal with his own eyes, to have confirmation he was still alive and breathing. Frustrated by the strength of his reaction, remembering that he was supposed to _hate_ the man, Will nodded. Perhaps it was better if he didn't see him now, to gain some physical distance to help with the emotional one. “Off the record.”

 

“Of course.” Jack smiled sardonically. He straightened up, smile slipping. “Is there any next of kin that need to be notified?”

 

Will almost blurted out that someone should call Alana, stopping himself at the last moment. He didn't know if her relationship with Hannibal was public or not. “No.” He'd never bothered to find out if Hannibal had any relatives. Hannibal knew so much about him, while Will knew so little in return. “I mean, I don't know.”

 

“Me neither,” Jack said wistfully. “And I call myself his friend. Sad, isn't it? At least _you_ have an excuse.”

 

Stung, Will made ready to leave. He knew more about Hannibal than Jack could ever hope to, if he continued refusing the truth, yet what use was there in arguing?

 

“Will, wait.” Jack fumbled something out of his pocket. “Here. You'll need this. Baltimore PD's never going to let you into the house, otherwise.”

 

It was Will's old FBI ID card and badge. With a frown, he took them.

 

“Don't stare like that,” Jack grouched. “It's not like they're going to bite.”

 

Will pocketed the items. “I don't know how I feel about you carrying them around.”

 

“Hope springs eternal, and all that.”

 

Will didn't return Jack's lopsided grin. “You can't do that, Jack. You can't treat me like a suspect, and then send me off to a crime scene like nothing happened.” They stared at each other, a silent battle of wills. It was Jack who looked away first, jaw muscles working. Will zipped up his jacket. “Call me when he wakes.”

 

*

 

Dirt-grey morning light was beginning to rise up over the houses at Chandler Square, accompanied by a fine drizzle of rain that couldn't seem to decide if it wanted to turn into snow or ice. Now that he knew Hannibal was still alive, Will was beginning to feel exhausted; he'd had maybe two hours of sleep, and the fading adrenaline left him jittery and numb at the same time.

 

Tiredly, he gazed at the single Baltimore PD squad car parked outside Hannibal's house. With any luck, the police had finished their sweep of the crime scene, and he wouldn't have to deal with a bunch of nosy cops following him around.

 

As Will got out of his car and crossed the street, an officer opened the door to the house. “You Will Graham?” Nodding, Will produced his FBI credentials. The officer gave them a cursory glance and ushered him inside. “Jack Crawford called, said to let you in.”

 

 _Did he also tell you I don't want company?_ It was warm inside Hannibal's house, too warm. The entrance area showed no sign of a struggle. Will took off his jacket and hung it up. “You don't have to follow me around, Officer...”

 

“Grayson.”

 

“Officer Grayson. I'm just going to take a quick look. In the morning, a forensics team from the FBI is going to do the rest. Do you have the incident report?”

 

Grayson produced a slim folder. Other than a few pictures of the kitchen floor, showing various dark splotches, there wasn't much in it. Hannibal had returned home at 02:15 AM and gone into the kitchen, where he ran into his mysterious assailant. Said mysterious assailant had then fled the house after shooting him – thigh, lucky that it hadn't hit the great artery – and out of confusion and pain, Hannibal had phoned Jack Crawford instead of an ambulance or the police. The ERT had arrived at the scene at 02:43 AM.

 

28 minutes.

 

A man could easily bleed to death in 28 minutes.

 

Will wandered into the kitchen, leaving Officer Grayson to his own devices. The splotches of dried blood looked less impressive to the naked eye than they did in the photographs. The furniture of Hannibal's kitchen, with its U-shaped set of counters and stove, didn't show any damage at all. A few framed pictures had been knocked off the wall, likely by Hannibal himself. According to the report, nothing obvious was missing – TV and DVD player, stereo set-up, sculptures and paintings all accounted for, as far as Baltimore PD could tell.

 

No obvious signs of ransacking. It wasn't just Will's gut feeling that said something wasn't right with the scene; there were too many facts that didn't line up properly, yet with Randall Tier dismissed as an immediate suspect, he was going to have to treat this like a burglary.

 

For now.

 

Most burglars would attempt to flee the site, rather than face down the unexpectedly returned home owners. Will laid the incident report on a counter, careful not to touch any of the smooth surfaces, and looked for the place where the bullet had ended up, after making its way through Hannibal's thigh. He found it in the wall opposite the counters, marked with a yellow post-it note.

 

So Hannibal had entered the kitchen, surprised whoever had broken into his house, and then...

 

Will positioned himself in front of the wall. Hannibal was a tad taller than him, and he didn't know which leg he'd been shot in, or from what angle. Still, Hannibal had been standing here.

 

What kind of burglar lost themselves in the contemplation of a stranger's kitchen, when going by everything Will did know about Hannibal, there were other rooms with far more valuable items in them? The dining room alone held a few pieces of art Will was willing to bet were worth a few thousand quid, if sold through the right channels.

 

 _Maybe the perp panicked. Maybe Hannibal returned just a few minutes after the house had been broken into, and the shooter didn't have_ time _to start looking for valuables._

 

Moving out of the kitchen and down the hallway past the dining room, Will ended up in a tastefully decorated living room. There was the patio door, taped shut with police seals. No footprints on the carpet leading from the patio door further into the house.

 

The backyard was a small landscape of trees and lawn under a cover of snow. A garden bench stood forlornly next to a frozen pond.

 

Footprints on the terrace, leading away from the patio door, to the side, toward the breast-high wall surrounding the backyard. If the FBI's forensic team didn't show up on time, the prints would be all but gone.

 

Will was about to turn to find Officer Grayson, to inquire if he had a camera, when he noticed something odd about the prints.

 

They were a woman's.

 

At least, they were someone's who had worn high-heeled shoes, going by the distinct toe and heel depressions in the hard-packed snow on the terrace.

 

No burglar worth their salt, male or female, would wear that kind of footwear to a job. That happened only in movies. High-heeled shoes tended to make more noise than flat-heeled ones, for one. Two, Will had seen women run in stilettos, and run _fast_ , but he couldn't think of any reason why any burglar would choose style over practicality, especially while breaking into unknown territory, where so much could go wrong and a twisted ankle could make the difference between being caught and a clean getaway.

 

 _Alana?_ No, that was idiotic. It was more than likely Hannibal had been spending the evening with her. _Dinner reservations at nine_.

 

The proverbial light bulb went on.

 

 _Freddie_.

 

Will returned to the kitchen. The incident report made no mention of red, curly hairs found where they didn't belong. Perhaps the forensics team would turn up more. Carefully, Will peeked into the hallway, relieved to see Officer Grayson gone. He stepped into another room – a large study – and looked through the window, finding the man sitting in his squad car, the window rolled down, smoking a cigarette.

 

Then Will stood in the hallway for a long moment. Freddie Lounds.

 

Will knew she had no boundaries when it came to getting what she wanted. She'd gone into the Minnesota Shrike's nest, and she'd loitered on the Hobbs' property. She'd gained access to the psychiatric facility where Abigail had been recuperating, too, and she'd lied to a detective to gain information during the Eldon Stammets case. Freddie had a way of ignoring the law whenever it suited her; she'd have no moral qualms about a little breaking and entering, if she thought there was something worth taking a picture of.

 

Why would Freddie Lounds break into Hannibal Lecter's house?

 

Once more entering the kitchen, Will pulled the sleeve of his sweater over his hand and opened the fridge. He shut it again, turning halfway and extending his hand, fingers shaped into a gun, aiming at the wall.

 

Yeah. That would work.

 

Did Freddie even own a gun?

 

Groaning, Will rubbed a hand over his face. There was literally no evidence Freddie had done this, just a few shoe prints that might as well have been left by Alana, earlier yesterday. Disgusted with himself for letting his imagination run away like that, Will picked up the incident report, ready to leave. He'd taken a look; the rest would have to wait until the FBI forensics had gone over the scene. With no body to work from, just splatters of blood on the floor as evidence, there wasn't much he could use to immerse himself further.

 

In the hallway again, he hesitated.

 

If Will had ever hoped for a chance to do some unobserved snooping around in Hannibal's belongings, now was the perfect opportunity.

 

What would he find? A great deal of expensive furniture. Art. A rather large collection of suits with matching pocket pieces and ties. Books.

 

Hannibal wouldn't be so careless to leave incriminating evidence in his home. Will was certain that even the combined contents of the fridge and whatever other cold storage containers were in the house wouldn't turn up anything unusual – no human meat, cut to fine pieces, frozen for later consumption. No jellied eyeballs.

 

_No, he serves the meat fresh. Only the best for the distinguished cannibal and his clueless guests._

 

Officer Grayson didn't even bother to get out of the squad car, when Will left the house. The rain had stopped. The sky was milky – a pale sun promising no warmth, half-hidden behind clouds promising more rain. “Find anything interesting?”

 

Will handed him the incident report, dithering on whether or not he should mention the shoe prints on the terrace. Could be something, could be nothing. He decided to wait for the result of the forensic sweep. “No. Have there been many break-ins, in this area?”

 

“Chandler Square? You gotta be kidding.” Grayson lit another cigarette. “Most of the houses around here are locked down tighter than Fort Knox. Lots of rich people in the neighbourhood. Kinda makes me wonder why this Lecter guy doesn't have his house alarmed, you know?”

 

That was an easy one.

 

 _Hubris_ , Will thought. _He's a predator. He's not used to others preying on_ him _._

 

*

 

Will stopped for coffee on the way back to Johns Hopkins. Jack still hadn't called. Blearily sipping his coffee in the parking lot of the shop, leaned against his car in the hopes the fresh, cold air would compound the effects of the caffeine, Will entertained thoughts of going home, to catch a few hours of much-needed sleep. His earlier, insistent _need_ to verify Hannibal's continued existence, beyond the assurance of Jack's word, gnawed at him; he was, to put it lightly, becoming slightly obsessed there, and some distance might do him good.

 

He was so lost in thought he didn't see Freddie Lounds approach until she was almost on top of him. “Mr. Graham,” she said, with her usual easy-going tone of voice, “fancy running into you here.”

 

A tightness around her eyes and mouth gave her away, belying her outward calm. Will knew immediately it wasn't a coincidence, meeting her in a more or less deserted parking lot, just gone six in the morning; sure enough, there was Freddie's Jeep, parked across the street.

 

Freddie glanced around. “Could we sit in your car? I'm freezing my butt off.” She noticed Will's blank expression, adding in an impatient tone, “Yes, I followed you from Lecter's house.”

 

“You shot Hannibal.”

 

“I did.” A muscle in Freddie's jaw jumped. Overall, though, she didn't appear surprised he knew. “Your car. Please?” Once the doors were shut, Freddie opened her handbag. She tipped it in Will's direction. “Not recording this conversation,” she explained.

 

“No sense recording something that might incriminate you, is there?”

 

“I fucked up. Badly.”

 

 _Understatement_. If she'd found anything incriminating in Hannibal's house at all, she would have gone to the police by now, or called Jack, or posted it to Tattlecrime.com. A part of Will enjoyed seeing her like this: out of her depth, nervous. Freddie hadn't exactly endeared herself to him over their course of their acquaintance. “And you waited around near the scene of your crime, so to speak, because...”

 

Freddie scoffed. “I knew Jack Crawford would send you around. You're his lapdog. His best bloodhound,” she corrected hastily.

 

“Not winning points for yourself there, Freddie.”

 

“Am I wrong? You were at the truck driver crime scene, even after the FBI was all but ready to burn you at the stake.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You're back in therapy with Lecter, too, unless you started visiting him weekly at his office to talk about, I don't know, _opera_?”

 

“Have you been following me?”

 

“Not...exactly.” Freddie sunk lower in the car seat, as if afraid a bunch of Baltimore PD officers would descend on them any moment. “I need help.”

 

 _Not exactly._ That could mean anything. Will felt a frisson of nervousness himself. He'd never even considered Freddie could have been doing covert observation on him; he'd expected her to just ring his door bell one day, to remind him he still owed her an interview. Did she know he'd been at the Horse Hounder scene, as well?

 

Did she know about Clark Ingram?

 

“Help with what, Freddie? I'm assuming Hannibal saw you. Turn yourself in.”

 

“Can't do that. I'm working on something, I – look, answer me this: why are you back in therapy with Lecter?”

 

“It's...complicated.”

 

“Is it? Smells more like a trap to me.”

 

“Trap?” Will asked carefully.

 

“I'm not blind, Mr. Graham. The world might believe Frederick Chilton is the Chesapeake Ripper, but I don't. Do you really believe Chilton killed Abigail Hobbs? I don't, and even if I were to believe he committed all these other crimes, I'll never let _that_ go.” She measured him with a cool look. “And neither would you, I think. You loved that girl. So here's what I think: you're trying to catch Lecter in the act. You're back in therapy with him because you're trying to get him to expose himself, and Jack's in on it.”

 

She was so close to the truth, just missing one key element. Freddie believed Will was back with the FBI. Feeling his badge and ID card sitting in his pocket like lead weights, Will almost felt he should congratulate her on her keen investigative skills. Freddie Lounds was _dangerous_ – he'd always found her obnoxious, and her behaviour tasteless and self-serving, but now he saw the side of her that would dig and dig and dig until the ugly truth was revealed.

 

“Am I wrong?” Freddie pressed.

 

For one tantalizing second, Will thought about cluing her in. It would be nice, having an ally. Freddie had resources he didn't have – resources, he suspected, the _FBI_ didn't have – and while he worked on Hannibal personally, she could dig into the other stuff: former patients of Hannibal's, and the like.

 

Yet he hadn't forgotten her theatrical appearance at his trial, or all the snide remarks – some well-deserved, some just out of spite, and that _article_ she'd written on him, during the Eldon Stammets case – she dropped about him, often right in his face.

 

“Can't help you,” Will told her, clipped. “You broke into a house and shot an unarmed man. That's breaking and entering, and assault with a deadly weapon. Unless you found something at his house, not even Jack is going to be able to get you out of this one. Turn yourself in.”

 

“I didn't kill him. I shot him in the _leg_.”

 

“Did he give you a reason to? Did Hannibal attack you?”

 

“No, I...panicked.” Freddie gave a little, self-deprecating laugh. “I didn't even hear him come in. He suddenly stood in the kitchen.”

 

Will rubbed his brow. He didn't really feel equipped to deal with this, nor was he in the mood to aid Freddie Lounds. Whether or not the forensic team turned up something at Hannibal's house was beside the point; going by her description and what Will had seen at the house, Hannibal had definitely seen Freddie, and he'd have no reason to lie in her favour. As soon as Hannibal woke, he'd tell Jack all about it.

 

Freddie seemed to sense the conversation wasn't going to end like she'd hoped. Tight-faced, she reached for the door handle. “Thanks for nothing. I wonder how the public is going to react, once they learn about the lengths you and Jack are willing to go to, to catch Hannibal Lecter.”

 

“What's that supposed to mean?”

 

“Oh, nothing.” Freddie smiled at him. “Just saying – the FBI is willing to cover an abomination like Clark Ingram, for the sake of catching Hannibal Lecter, but not me? Peter Bernadone says hi, by the way. He's very fond of you, and...”

 

Will's hand came down on the car's childen's safety lock. He blinked, stared down, amazed at his action.

 

When he looked up, the smile had slipped off Freddie's face.

 

“Oh,” she breathed, eyes widening, _calm_ in the face of realization, “my god. You -”

 

Will punched her in the throat.

 

It was an awkward hit, coming from a bad angle, driven more by panic than intent. Freddie's scream cut off abruptly as she gasped for breath, reaching for her throat with both hands. Will grabbed and tossed her handbag into the back seat.

 

She knew.

 

She fucking _knew_ , but only now was she piecing it together _correctly_.

 

The rest of Will's coffee spilled hot and scalding over his thigh, over the seat, into the foot space. He grabbed Freddie's head with both hands and yanked her down sideways. She hit the gear stick – the car lurched backward, thrown out of park – rolled –

 

Will stepped on the brakes. He heard nothing but his own laboured breaths as he worked his hands under Freddie's long curls, around her neck. His mind was blank, safe for an all-encompassing panic, the certain knowledge that if he let Freddie go now, she'd tell Jack, she'd tell the police, she'd post it all over her website -

 

He held her down until her gasps for breath stopped. Until her feet stopped kicking.

 

Until she was gone.

 

*

 

Afterwards, trance-like, Will put both his hands on the steering wheel, half-moons of red under his fingernails, the muscles in his arms aching with exertion. Panic threatened again, held at bay only by the knowledge that if he panicked now, he'd go back to prison. He couldn't –

 

His cell phone rang. Will nearly jumped out of the seat. Galvanized by the sudden, unexpected noise, he looked around wildly: parking lot, deserted, but _god_ , what if there were cameras, he'd just _killed_ –

 

He shoved at the limp body until it was folded awkwardly into the foot space of the passenger seat, felt a searing jolt of revulsion mixed with self-loathing as he saw the empty eyes, bloodshot and bulging. Will nestled the ringing cell phone out of his pocket and crammed his jacket over the red curls.

 

Out of sight. Out of mind.

 

Oh, if only.

 

 _Amateurish_ , Hannibal would say. _Here, let me show you how it's done_ right.

 

Will reached for the tranquillity of every killer he'd ever encountered, scraped together the eerie calm of Garret Jacob Hobbs in the moment of death, the serenity of the Muralist. “Jack.” Numbness was preferable. “Just getting some coffee.”

 

“Yeah, bring me some, too, the swill here is beyond description.” Jack sounded worn down. “Hannibal is awake. You got anything from the scene?”

 

“Vague impressions. There wasn't much for me to work with.” Will stiffened, seeing a door at the back of the coffee shop open, but it was just an employee setting out a trash bag. A car drove by behind him, on the street. The coffee shop employee looked up, seeing Will, and waved at him with a smile; it was the young man who'd served him, and Will dimly remembered leaving a rather large tip. He waved back woodenly, forcing a smile. The door closed again. _Don't panic_. “I saw some footprints, in the snow in the backyard. I think you're going to be looking for a woman, Jack.”

 

“I know. Hannibal just told me it was Freddie Lounds who shot him.”

 

Will said nothing. He could only hope Jack was going to interpret his lack of reaction as surprise.

 

“We're putting an APB out on her, now. Baltimore PD's already on the way to her apartment. How far away are you from Johns Hopkins?”

 

“About twenty minutes.”

 

“Good. Come back here. I don't know what the hell is going through Freddie's head, but until we catch her, I consider her armed and dangerous.”

 

 _Not anymore_. Guiltily, Will glanced down at his jacket and the corpse under it. He couldn't even bring himself to think of it as Freddie Lounds, not now.

 

“Will. Will, are you listening to me?”

 

“Yeah, I'm...I'm sorry. I'm tired. I want to go home.”

 

“I don't want you to go home. Hannibal thinks she might come after you, too.”

 

Stunned, Will digested this. Hannibal had spun it as if Freddie had gone after him with the intention to kill. It was a genius move, really. Going by the fact that Freddie _had_ shot him, anything she might have said to counter that accusation wouldn't have had much weight. Will suddenly wanted to know what Freddie had said – what words had been exchanged between Hannibal and her, in the kitchen – before she pulled the trigger.

 

What Hannibal had said to _her_.

 

“Why would Freddie come after _me_?”

 

“I don't know. I don't know anything, at this point. Until I do, until we catch her, I want you where I can see you. Get back here, Will. Don't make me send some of my guys after you.”

 

“You want to put me up in a hospital?”

 

“I can put you up in Baltimore PD, if you prefer that.”

 

It was an empty threat. Jack had no legal grounds for protective custody, and they both knew it. And driving back to Johns Hopkins, with a corpse in his car? _Freddie Lounds'_ corpse? Will felt laughter bubbling up, ugly, flirting with insanity. “What about my dogs?”

 

“I'll go out there and feed them myself. Just get back here.”

 

Will sat in the car for ten minutes, staring blankly ahead. His future stretched before him, clear as never before, a two-fork line, and he was standing at the crossroads.

 

One fork of the road lead further into darkness, oily and treacherous. It was tainted – built on lies and deception, the destruction of everything that made sense in the world, that made the world _right_. It was a road of no return, destination unknown. There was no telling where Will would end up, just what he would become. He'd already shuffled part of the way, when he killed Clark Ingram, but there was still time to turn back.

 

The other fork of the road lead straight into a tiny cell, dull and _final_.

 

With a shaking hand, Will turned the key in the ignition.

 

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 01: This is something that bugged me about the series - people just wandering in and out of Hannibal's home. Will even somehow managed to drag a dead body all the way into the dining room, and in Mizumono, Jack appeared in the kitchen, just so. No burglar alarm at all. Don't people in Baltimore ever close their front doors, or what?
> 
> Note 02: I absolutely hated Freddie Lounds in the book. I dislike Freddie Lounds, TV-version. I respect the good qualities she has, while I abhor most of the rest of what she does, and especially _how_ she does it; overall, she's not my favourite character. Still, this being the second time I ended up killing her in as many stories, I feel the need to point out that I'm not a rabid Freddie-Lounds-hater.


	6. 6.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been looking forward to posting this chapter. This marks a turning point in the story; Will has gotten himself thoroughly trapped, and it's going doooooownhill from here on out.

**6.**

 

It took a certain kind of cold-bloodedness to pull into the visitor's parking lot of Johns Hopkins with the corpse of a woman in your car. If there'd ever been any shred of doubt in Will's mind that Hannibal had coaxed _something_ to the forefront that would better have stayed buried and out of sight, that doubt was now gone.

 

He gave in to the inevitability of the situation.

 

Fatalism wasn't something Will had ever counted among the qualities of his character, few as there were. Right now, though, he had quite literally no other options. Jack was waiting for him, primed to send someone after him if he didn't make an appearance, and getting rid of a body on a Saturday morning, in the middle of Baltimore?

 

It was already a small miracle no one had seen him murder Freddie Lounds in the first place. If there was a special god holding a protective hand over sadistic cannibals, that deity was currently cradling Will in its benevolent palm like a fledgling acolyte, cooing at him.

 

Sitting in the car and gazing at the lone parking lot security guard in his tiny booth with tired acceptance that the only way out of this was through it, head first, Will scrubbed half-heartedly at the coffee stain on his trousers. The red crust under his fingernails had dried into crumbling brown, easily mistaken for dirt. Will lived on a farm, with a pack of dogs, and was no stranger to manual labour. No one would take a second look.

 

He wondered at his serenity. No borrowed emotion, this time: this was all Will Graham. He couldn't rely on Garret Jacob Hobbs, Eldon Stammets or any of the others. _They_ had failed. Ultimately their pathologies had paved the road to ruin, either by their own hand or the long, gun-carrying arm of the law.

 

Will couldn't afford failure. It simply wasn't in him, the mindset required to do what he'd cautioned Freddie to do: turn himself in. Guilt he had in spades, already festering as miniature whirlpools beneath the tranquil flow of his thoughts. It was contested by a cold, iron certainty that this was the right path for him, for now; Will wasn't going to go back to prison. He just _wasn't_. He'd had enough of a taste to last him for the rest of his life.

 

He'd made his bed. Now he'd have to lie in it.

 

Some part of him even enjoyed it.

 

If this was what fully immersing himself in a killer's mindset felt like, he'd take it over the confusion, the fear that had always dogged him before. There was peace in knowing what he'd done, _he_ – not some assumed persona, someone else's urges and wants and damaged neural pathways.

 

There was horror, too, waiting down that road.

 

For now, it would serve him well. It had to.

 

Will's gaze dropped down and to the side. The woman – _Freddie_ made such a small package, folded into the foot space of the passenger seat. He tucked his jacket in around her, tugged the blanket from the back seat he usually used for his dogs, and draped it casually over top.

 

He reached into the back seat again, for Freddie's handbag. In it: wallet, keys, chewing gum, her cell phone, a press ID, make-up, a small, discrete camera. With a few moves, Will opened the back of the cellphone and took out the SIM-card and the battery.

 

The FBI would try to triangulate Freddie's last known position. With any luck, the many cellphone towers in the city would make it harder to pinpoint than if she'd been out somewhere remote, where towers were further apart.

 

If not, well. _Don't think about it_.

 

He looked up at the hospital. Jack couldn't hope to hold him there indefinitely, but Will would be here for at least the rest of the day, possibly tomorrow. There'd be guards posted on the floor, and the hospital grounds had excellent camera coverage. The chances of sneaking out to get rid of the body were slim, close to non-existent.

 

Feeling laughter bubbling under his breastbone again, Will put the disassembled cellphone back into the handbag. On a whim, he grabbed the small camera, and shoved the handbag under the driver's seat. One day, and the odours of a decomposing body would be more than noticeable, although the overall chilly weather could help stall the process. Two days, and the entire car would stink, cold weather or not; three days, and Freddie would start seeping into the upholstery.

 

He'd think of something. He _had_ to.

 

Perhaps he could ask Hannibal for advice.

 

Will did laugh then, hearing the edge of madness lurking in his voice.

 

He slipped the camera into his pocket. Then he got out of the car, locked it, and crossed the parking lot. The security guard gave him a friendly nod, distracted by this morning's newspaper and a steaming cup. Will was chilled through and through by the time he made it into the Emergency Centre; he probably looked like death warmed over, going by the askance look the nurse on duty at the front desk shot him, as he walked past her to the elevator banks.

 

Someone must have brought Jack a change of clothes. Dressed in his customary suit and polished shoes, coat slung over one arm, hat on a nearby visitor's chair, he lifted an eyebrow at Will's slow approach. Two men in plain-clothes flanked him, FBI agents or Baltimore PD; Will was too tired to figure it out.

 

“We've squared things with the hospital administration.” Taking Will by the shoulder, Jack lead him to the door at the end of the hallway. “Three square meals a day, and this,” he indicated the two men, nodding at them, “is your protection detail. Agents Donovan and Miller. Will Graham. Gentlemen, along with Doctor Lecter, he's your charge.”

 

Will gave them a closer look. They stared back, flinty-eyed and unsmiling. They could have been twins, if not for the marked difference in skin colours; same square jaws, same broad shoulders, same close-cropped fuzz of hair, same posture. Ex-military, probably. Guys who ate a dozen eggs for breakfast and cracked walnuts with their little fingers. Will felt tiny and puny, next to them. “It's just Freddie Lounds, Jack. Don't you think you're overdoing it a little?”

 

“Freddie Lounds is armed, and we both know she has a knack for getting into places.” The look on Jack's face promised there'd be no arguing the protective detail. “Zeller and Price are at Doctor Lecter's house now. You were right about the shoe prints on the terrace, they match in size with other shoes we took from Lounds' apartment. We have no other evidence yet, but Freddie always leaves something behind, and we'll find it.”

 

The cogs of the FBI were rolling full-force already. Jack would comb Baltimore for Freddie, then Maryland, then the entire continent. He'd leave no stone unturned until he found her. Things had been hitting a little too close to home lately, for him.

 

A sliver of apprehension tightened Will's gut, gnawing at the icy calm that had carried him from the parking lot into the hospital. “How long am I supposed to stay here?”

 

“Today and tomorrow. Maybe three days, depending on what we turn up. We still don't have a motive. I don't know _why_ Lounds suddenly went from shooting pictures to shooting people. It doesn't make any sense.”

 

“Hannibal couldn't tell you anything?”

 

“Drugged to the gills. He couldn't tell me much more than who'd shot him. See for yourself.”

 

Will looked at the door. The name plate had been removed. A suspicion began to form. “Where's my room?”

 

“You get a bed. In there.”

 

“Jack...”

 

“One room's easier to keep an eye on than two. This isn't a hotel, Will. Unless you want to check in for some medical ailment I'm not aware of?”

 

Will gave up. He could tell when an argument was lost; if Jack thought it was a good idea to make him bunk with Hannibal, he'd do it, though not without getting one shot in. “You sure you want to do this? What happened to me being a danger to Hannibal?”

 

The two agents flanking Jack shifted. It was an unobtrusive motion, but to Will it felt as though he was suddenly being loomed over. Jack stared at him levelly.

 

“Oh, for goodness' sake.” Exasperated, Will opened the door. “Two days, Jack. Then I'm going home, whether you found Freddie or not.” He dug in his pocket for his house keys and thrust them out at Jack. “Send someone to feed my dogs. Make sure they get some time to run around outside. I don't want to come home to piss and shit on the floor.”

 

He stepped into the hospital room and shut the door.

 

Hannibal, sitting upright in bed, blanket folded tidily at his waist and hands folded over his belly, smiled at him. “Hello, Will.”

 

Will paced from the door to the window, ignoring the greeting. He could see an edge of the parking lot, but not his car, and the apprehension tripled. The hospital administration would inform the guard down there Will's car would be in the parking lot for at least two days, so it wouldn't get towed, but what if the guard took too close a look, during his rounds?

 

“Will,” Hannibal said. And then again, “ _Will_.”

 

Will turned from the window, sweeping the room with a glance – two beds, the unoccupied one closer to the window, a hospital night stand separating them, small mirror/wash basin combo in the corner, a single dresser, the omnipresent table and chairs in the other corner, TV mounted on the wall, framed pictures – and focusing on Hannibal.

 

He looked weird, hair falling into his face, hospital gown stretched over his shoulders, white bracelet around his wrist. For someone who'd suffered a bullet through the leg and was, according to Jack, 'drugged to the gills', Hannibal didn't seem to have any problems sitting upright in his usual composed manner.

 

Drugged or not, two days in the same room with Hannibal amounted to Will's worst nightmare, especially with the pressing matter of needing to do something about Freddie's corpse at hand. “What?”

 

“What happened to your trousers? What happened to _you_?”

 

Will looked down at himself. He'd grabbed the first pair of trousers he could find, after Jack's call roused him. The coffee stain showed darkly on the light tan material, a large splotch from the top of Will's thigh to his knee. One pant cuff had gotten tangled in the tongue of his shoe. His t-shirt was untucked, hanging over his belt, and the sweater, fraying collar and cuffs, didn't save anything about his appearance.

 

“Had a bad day,” Will muttered. He sat down on the edge of the free bed, weighted down by exhaustion. With the twin gorillas posted outside, he had no choice but to wait this out. “What about you?”

 

Hannibal reclined an inch or two. “Luckily for me, Miss Lounds' aim is as terrible as her ethical conduct. The bullet went through cleanly, missing the bone.”

 

Hannibal didn't _sound_ drugged. Suspiciously, Will peered closely at him. No widened pupils, no slackness of features, no unfocused gaze. No, the man was in full control of his facilities. Wonderful. Will had been hoping for at least a few hours where he wouldn't have to deal with inquisitive questions and that keen gaze.

 

“You were at my house, I assume. Did you find anything?”

 

 _Your blood on the floor._ “Just footprints.” The firm mattress proved too much of a temptation to resist. Will toed off his shoes and stretched out. “Corroborating what you told Jack. I didn't do any snooping, if you're worried about that.”

 

“There's nothing I own that I wouldn't want you to see,” Hannibal said magnanimously. “Are you tired, Will? Jack told me you haven't slept much, last night.”

 

“Is it that obvious?” He didn't bother to keep the biting sarcasm out of his voice. He was tired, and upset, and calm, and apprehensive; Will had a cocktail of volatile emotions inside and the one thing that would have put him slightly more at ease was the one thing he couldn't _get to_ , unless he climbed out of a third-store window and disappeared for a few hours. “What do you care, anyway?”

 

“Very much,” Hannibal said quietly. “More than you probably think me capable of.”

 

Will turned his head and looked over at him. He felt stripped naked under Hannibal's avid gaze, bared to the bones. It was one thing, facing that in Hannibal's office; here, with his defences already worn thin, it was almost unbearable. He closed his eyes and lifted an arm, covering his face, and rolled onto his back.

 

“Why don't you sleep for a few hours,” Hannibal suggested. “I'm afraid this room doesn't offer much in the way of entertainment, to keep you occupied otherwise.”

 

There was enough in Will's head to keep him – and a handful of judges, juries, and Jack, if it ever came to light – occupied without any outside stimuli. Outside stimuli was the last thing he needed. He didn't think he'd be able to sleep, with Hannibal in the room, anyway. With the corpse of Freddie Lounds in his car.

 

*

 

Will opened his eyes. His lids felt leaden, crusted, so heavy. Something in the room had shifted: the light, the shadows. The blanket. When had he pulled the blanket over himself?

 

Hannibal sat in a chair next to Will's bed, dressed in proper pyjamas, a black house coat over his shoulders. “Go back to sleep, Will. You're very tired.”

 

 _But I haven't slept_.

 

Will tried to transform thought to speech. It came out as an inarticulate noise, garbled nonsense. Hannibal held one of Will's hands, and in his other he held a tiny pen knife. The sight made Will jerk and tense, alertness battling the weariness. It was altogether too much like that one memory he'd recalled, with Hannibal holding onto his arm, a syringe in his other hand.

 

“Ssh,” Hannibal soothed, “it's all right.” He tugged Will's hand back to the edge of the bed, his grip firm but non-threatening. “Go to sleep. I'm not going to harm you. Everything is all right, Will.”

 

It wasn't. God, it would never be all right again. “You don't know that,” Will mumbled, already sinking back under.

 

Hannibal smiled at him. And with a surgeon's precision, pen knife held daintily between three fingers, he resumed cleaning under Will's fingernails.

 

*

 

A sharp knock on the door jerked Will upright. The world tilted on its axis, see-sawing dangerously, then settled, leaving a queasy sensation behind in the pit of his stomach. Disoriented, he stared at the stranger stepping into the room.

 

“Lunch,” the stranger announced, holding the door for a bearded nurse in pale blue scrubs.

 

Lunch? _What happened to breakfast?_

 

The nurse deposited two stacked trays on the night stand between his and Hannibal's beds, then hurried back out, clearly not comfortable. Will's brain finally caught up. The stranger was Gorilla #1, Donovan or Miller. Will was in Baltimore, Maryland, in the Johns Hopkins Emergency Centre, and despite everything, he'd obviously fallen asleep.

 

And slept well, dreamless, for a solid five or six hours, if they were serving lunch.

 

Hannibal sat on the edge of his bed, inspecting the contents of the trays with a critical gaze. Surreptitiously, Will looked down at his fingernails. That hadn't been a dream – they were clean. Even the occasional hangnails he tended to bite off or ignore were gone.

 

“If you gentlemen need anything,” Miller-or-Donovan said, “let us know.”

 

“Thank you kindly,” Hannibal said, perfectly at ease.

 

Miller-or-Donovan stepped back out, shutting the door.

 

Will swung his legs over the side of the bed, battling another round of queasiness. He couldn't remember the last meal he'd had, or when, and the smell of food made his mouth water and his stomach clench. “You gave me a manicure.”

 

The statement hung in the air for a few seconds. “Is that what I did?” Hannibal asked, uncovering dishes.

 

*

 

“I could lend you some clothes,” Hannibal offered, an hour later. Through some as of yet unexplained sleight of hand, he'd acquired a small suitcase full of garments and toiletries, as well as books. “You may want to shower. Alana is going to visit, later.”

 

 _Make yourself presentable_ , Will heard.

 

Sitting cross-legged on his bed, nerves strung tight, he didn't know what was worse – that Alana was going to make an appearance when Will had no easy escape route to avoid being here when that happened, or that Hannibal had _obviously_ given Will a fucking _manicure_ and was acting as though that was the most ordinary thing in the world.

 

Evidence. Hannibal had gotten rid of _evidence_.

 

But did Hannibal know that? Or was he generally offended by dirty fingernails?

 

Will thought his cell at the Baltimore State Hospital had been small and claustrophobic, but this was worse; there were no bars, there were no restraints, no thick stone walls, but Will felt caged in, trapped. His mind was going in circles. The lunch, bland hospital food, sat heavily in his gut.

 

The idea of a shower wasn't so bad. At least he'd be in another room for a little while. “I don't suppose you have a spare toothbrush.”

 

Hannibal had a spare toothbrush, and a spare towel, and a spare shaving kit. The small suitcase provided Will with a pair of pyjama pants and a soft sweater, too, both in charcoal grey. It was a go-bag, Will realized, probably a leftover habit from Hannibal's days as an emergency room surgeon, when he could be called in to work, or had to stay longer at work.

 

Or a habit suited to far more recent needs, when unexpected discovery could force him to having to leave Baltimore in a hurry at any moment.

 

Hannibal held up a pair of boxer briefs. “Would you like a pair of underpants, too?” He didn't wait for an answer, adding them to the small pile of clothes.

 

It was already bad enough Will had to resort to borrowing another man's clothing. He hated relying on others like that; it reminded him too much of his childhood, when money had been tight and the pitying glances from the other children felt like knives under his skin. To borrow from _Hannibal_ , of all people, just felt like adding insult to injury; if the shower didn't sound so damn tempting...

 

He lifted his armful of items. “I'll have these cleaned and returned to you as soon as possible.” Feeling his face heat, he added, “Thank you.”

 

Hannibal waved the words away. “Don't mention it. What are a few clothes between friends?”

 

On top of it all, _that_ was just ridiculous. _Friends_.

 

They were, though, weren't they? At least Hannibal was certainly acting the part. He was _taking care_ of Will – providing him with clothes, getting rid of evidence for him. He'd know what crusted blood looked like.

 

Will fled the room.

 

Outside, he ran straight into a broad chest. “Sir, I'll have to ask you to -”

 

“I just want a damn shower,” Will bit out savagely.

 

Miller-or-Donovan stepped back, obviously surprised by the venom in Will's voice. The other Miller-or-Donovan stood at the end of the hallway, watching the scene with narrowed eyes. Unpleasantly reminded that Jack had obviously not only told them to watch over him, but also to keep an eye on him, Will sighed.

 

“Look, I had a crap night. I want a shower, and a piss, and I want to brush my teeth. The bathroom's right there,” he pointed at a door halfway down the corridor, “and I'm not going to jump out a window on the third floor. I won't lock the door, if that makes you feel better.”

 

Miller-or-Donovan nodded slowly. “All right.”

 

*

 

In the bathroom, Will undressed. Freddie's camera fell out of the pocket of his trousers and to the floor. He'd forgotten about it. He bent to retrieve it, turning it in his hands. While he stood there figuring out the tiny control panel on the back of the camera, he noticed the door handle was moving slowly. The door opened an inch, then was pulled shut again, all without sound.

 

Miller-or-Donovan, checking if he'd kept his word and kept the door unlocked.

 

Will was beginning to resent Jack's ever-changing attitude toward him. As much as Will understood the other man's line of reasoning, it was beginning to grate. _Seriously_ grate. The relationship he'd had with Jack was beginning to deteriorate quickly, and Will wasn't sad to see it go. They weren't yet at a point where either side would declare enmity, but recent events taken into consideration, Will could see that day approach.

 

A clean cut, which let both sides know exactly where they stood, might be a good thing, even.

 

Will banished the thought quickly. He couldn't afford to make an enemy out of Jack Crawford. The man was already wary of him; the relationship they'd had was all that kept Jack from submitting him to a far closer scrutiny. If Jack learned, for example, that Will _had_ gone to see Clark Ingram...

 

 _Good thing Freddie's dead_.

 

A shudder worked its way down Will's spine. He shouldn't be _glad_ he'd killed her.

 

He focused on the tiny back screen of the camera. The most recent pictures had all been taken inside Hannibal's house, showing seemingly meaningless subjects: the dinning room, the kitchen, the framed pictures. _Leda and the Swan_. Sculptures. The contents of Hannibal's fridge. There was a picture of a room Will hadn't seen yet – an opulent bedroom, black and blue, Japanese lithographs framing the bed. Above it, two pairs of what looked like bull's horns. Will knew comparatively little about decoration, but the _carnality_ was hard to miss.

 

Each by themselves perfectly ordinary photo subjects, but combined they created the image of someone with a rather eccentric taste in art and subtly darker leanings. Still, Will couldn't imagine what Freddie had been hoping to achieve with these. He could only imagine that she'd broken into Hannibal's house in the hopes of finding something incriminating, something blatant.

 

The next picture showed an altogether different subject that made Will's blood run cold.

 

It was a picture of his house, taken from a distance, sometime during the day. The next shot showed the backyard. The one after that, the barn. Freddie had been on his property, without his knowledge or permission. There was even a picture of him with his dogs, taken the day he'd gone ice fishing.

 

Suddenly frantic, Will scrolled through the rest of the stored pictures. The truck stop, on the outskirts of Baltimore. The park where the couple had been found mauled. Blood in the snow. Places that looked vaguely familiar. A picture of a Baltimore PD officer, coming toward Freddie with his hand raised, angry. She'd been good at wrapping people around her little finger, and just as good at raising their hackles.

 

A picture of Will again, getting out of his car on a busy street. He knew exactly when and where that had been taken. The shot focused on his face, showing him lost in thought, bundled into coat and scarf, glasses perched on his nose, the surroundings indistinct. He'd gone to see Clark Ingram that day.

 

There were no more pictures.

 

Will sat down on the closed toilet lid, thoughts racing. If Freddie had downloaded these pictures to a computer, the FBI would find them.

 

_So let them. They prove nothing. If she'd had anything on you, anything at all, you wouldn't be here. You'd be back in a cell, rotting away for the rest of your life._

 

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Freddie had had him under surveillance. She'd followed him, she'd been on his property, and he'd never even noticed.

 

_Thank god she's dead._

 

*

 

Alana was sitting on the foot end of Hannibal's bed, when Will returned. Rather, she was sitting _up_ quickly.

 

Her hair was mussed. So was Hannibal's.

 

Awkward silence.

 

“I'll wait outside,” Will offered lamely, already turning back around.

 

Alana rose. “No, come in, please. I'm the intruder here.”

 

Odd choice of words. Reluctantly, Will closed the door. He'd clearly interrupted them, and he could think of five million places he'd rather be. There was a difference between making peace with the fact that the woman he'd been in love with had not only turned him down, but also fallen in love with Will's worst enemy – if Hannibal even _was_ an enemy – and being in the room while they wanted him here as much as he wanted to _be_ here.

 

Namely, not at all.

 

Will shuffled over to his bed, feeling two pairs of eyes on him, and busied himself with arranging his old clothes on a chair, the camera rolled safely into his trousers. When he was done, he sat, facing them.

 

Alana cleared her throat. “How are you?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Are you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You don't look fine to me. You're under a lot of stress, Will.”

 

Will slumped. _Two_ psychiatrists in the room with him. And here he'd thought the day couldn't get any worse.

 

“He's tired,” Hannibal interjected smoothly. “Perhaps we shouldn't poke him like that, hm? Another time, Alana.”

 

Alana looked as surprised as Will felt. Hannibal had all but drawn a line in the sand there, in a manner that couldn't be called anything but protective, and Will didn't know how he felt about that.

 

Other than grateful.

 

Alana recovered swiftly. “Of course. My apologies.” She sat back down. “Though I must honestly say I'm a little surprised Jack put you two in a room together.”

 

“Temporarily,” Will joked. Going by Alana's deadpan expression, she didn't think it was funny. Yep, that bridge had burned down entirely.

 

“Or,” she added pointedly, “that you're back in therapy together. It's just hard, knowing where you stand with each other. Your relationship doesn't seem to know any of the conventional boundaries.”

 

Will wasn't entirely sure of where he stood with Hannibal, himself. Where either of them stood. The plan to seduce him into believing Will was his friend seemed to have fallen by the wayside rather abruptly in the wake of recent events; Hannibal acted toward him as a friend would, or at least pretended very well. Nothing was certain. Least of all his own thoughts on the matter; Will couldn't even _begin_ to attempt to tackle Hannibal's motivations, too wrapped up in trying to untangle his own.

 

What difference was there now, between Hannibal and him? Murder was murder; quantitatively, Hannibal had committed the lion's share as the Chesapeake Ripper. But Will's hands were no longer clean, and both times the guilt he'd felt afterwards had faded quickly. He still owed Hannibal a reckoning, for the incarceration, for Abigail; he could no longer claim moral superiority, however.

 

Revenge, that was all it was now. If he wanted to expose Hannibal, force him to show his hand, Will would have by that same reasoning to expose _himself_. He'd embraced what Hannibal had brought out in him a little too well and not nearly given enough consideration the repercussions.

 

There was no forked road. Not any more.

 

“We know where we stand with each other,” Hannibal said into the silence. “Shouldn't that be enough?”

 

“Better the devil you know?” Alana didn't look convinced.

 

“I told you he'd be safe from me,” Will said tiredly. “You're all safe from me.”

 

*

 

Alana stayed for two hours. Conversation was a careful, strategic manoeuvre circumnavigating personal topics as minefields; after an hour, Will laid down and closed his eyes, letting their voices wash over him. He had so much to think about he could barely stay focused.

 

Jack burst into the room just as Alana was getting ready to leave. Jack's face looked like it was the end of the world. “Found something at Lounds' apartment that might interest everyone.” He produced a slim laptop from under his coat, still in an evidence bag, and set it up on the table in the corner. “Will, come over here. Look at this.”

 

 _The pictures_. _They found them._ Heart beating in his throat, Will scooted to the edge of his bed. Hannibal came over, too, sitting down in a chair, Alana at his shoulder.

 

Jack grabbed the bundle of Will's clothes and dropped them on the windowsill, taking the other chair. “Here. Look.” He scrolled through a long line of folders numbered by date, opening one. Sure enough, there were image files inside. “There's hundreds of these.”

 

Hannibal made a noise of displeasure. “Those were taken inside my home.”

 

“Not just your home, doctor.” Jack opened another file.

 

Alana leaned forward, incredulous. “That's...that's _my_ house. Why would she...?”

 

“Your house, Doctor Lecter's. Here. Will's barn. Will with his dogs. Will in Baltimore. She was literally stalking you. All of you.” Another image, one Will had just looked at two hours ago. He said nothing. Jack opened a series of images in quick succession. “Pictures of Abigail Hobbs at the clinic. She has a picture of Peter Bernadone, for Christ's sake. We kept that man's name out of the press!”

 

Mouth dry, Will asked, “Have you gone through them all?”

 

“Yes.” Jack was seething. “If – _when_ we find her, Miss Lounds will have a _lot_ to answer for. We could arrest her on grounds of obstruction of justice alone, regardless of the attack on Doctor Lecter.”

 

“I take it you haven't been able to locate Miss Lounds, yet?”

 

Jack shook his head at Hannibal's question. “Gone as if the earth opened up and swallowed her. We triangulated her cellphone. She placed a call this morning, to one of the lawyers working for Tattlecrime, to make an appointment she allegedly never showed up for. We're still checking that out. Since then, nothing. The closest we can pinpoint her location is Baltimore's middle, about twenty minutes from here by car. Then she turned off GPS.”

 

“She's smart,” Hannibal commented. “She's worked around law enforcement for most of her career. She'd know you would use that to locate her.”

 

Jack slapped the laptop shut, looking determined. “We'll find her. We've frozen her bank accounts, cancelled her credit cards. We've notified airports and train stations.” He turned in the chair, shooting Will an ominous look. “We found her car, too, a few hours ago. It was parked illegally across from a coffee shop on Lancaster Street. Where did you buy that coffee, this morning?”

 

“Some small place. I don't remember, Jack. It could have been on Lancaster Street.” Will pinched the bridge of his nose, light-headed. “I know for certain I didn't see her. I'd remember that.”

 

“Well, try to remember,” Jack said gruffly. “We have reasons to believe that Freddie might have waited around near Chandler Square, and then followed you there.”

 

“To do to Will what she couldn't accomplish with me?” Hannibal asked.

 

“Probably.”

 

“I don't understand. Why would Freddie even attack Hannibal?” Alana seemed at her wit's end, worried like Will had never seen her before. “She's a tabloid journalist, not a vigilante.”

 

Will saw all eyes turn to him. This was _his speciality_ , sussing out motif. He avoided looking at Hannibal, focusing on the laptop on the table instead. “She might have become obsessed. It happens.” He wetted his lips. Freddie had been obsessed – with finding out the truth. “She might not have believed Doctor Chilton was the Chesapeake Ripper. So she went looking for other viable suspects.”

 

“Like me,” Hannibal said quietly.

 

“And _me_?” Alana asked, incredulous again. “What do _I_ have to do with the Chesapeake Ripper?”

 

“Freddie was thorough. If she suspected Hannibal, she...” Will trailed off.

 

“She took pictures of me because Hannibal and I are together. Because I might have been in on it,” Alana finished. Jack, bug-eyed, stared up at her. She ignored him.

 

Will nodded.

 

Jack got his face back under control. “We'll find her,” he repeated. “Every cop in Baltimore and the surrounding area is looking for her right now.”

 

*

 

“They're not going to find her, are they?”

 

Alana and Jack had left twenty minutes ago. A nurse had come and gone with dinner trays. Will hadn't moved from his position on the bed, prone on his back, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Events had taken a turn he couldn't have predicted, but was cautiously going to assume as favourable. Hannibal's question roused him from his near-meditative state, dragging him back into unwelcome reality. “What?”

 

Hannibal stood at the side of Will's bed, looking down at him. “Freddie Lounds.”

 

“I'd...say no,” Will evaded. “She's good at slipping through nets. She got into places no one wanted her to. She'll be just as good at getting out of them.”

 

Hannibal sat down, his weight dipping the mattress. He sat with his back to Will, elbows resting on his knees. His thigh injury didn't seem to bother him at all. For a long time, Hannibal didn't move. Then, slowly, he turned to sit sideways.

 

The proximity bothered, and didn't bother Will, all at the same time. Just a murderer, sitting down next to another murderer. He could feel the heat of Hannibal's body through the thin hospital blanket, where his elbow touched Hannibal's thigh. It was a grounding touch. It anchored him in reality.

 

“With all my knowledge and intuition, I could never entirely predict you,” Hannibal said. He sounded...wistful, contemplative. He was looking at Will with his usual focus, but there was something else in his gaze. Contentment. _Pride_. Hannibal slipped a hand under Will's, lifting it. “What hatches from the chrysalis is beyond me.”

 

Will tried not to tense. For a second, he thought Hannibal would kiss his hand, but the other man only inspected his fingernails. In his own way, Hannibal was letting him know that he _knew_ – and approved. He'd probably known when he sat down to take care of the evidence, or at least suspected.

 

Hannibal _approved_. He was pleased, proud even.

 

He would be. Of course, he would be.

 

With a sinking feeling, Will realized Hannibal had him – right where he'd wanted him. Blood on his hands. The darkness inside brought forward. In his eagerness to trap Hannibal, Will had entangled himself. He didn't want to go back. He couldn't. The only way out now was forward, or prison. Hannibal still hadn't admitted to anything, hadn't given Will anything. Will, on the other hand, had a corpse in his car, and he wasn't – couldn't -

 

“Why?” Will didn't recognize his own voice. He tightened his fingers around Hannibal's hand. “Why me?”

 

He knew already. He'd known all along Hannibal hadn't driven him nearly to insanity just on a whim.

 

He wanted to _hear_ it.

 

“Because,” Hannibal said, “I knew you could see me. I knew it from the moment we met. And now you've finally opened your eyes.”

 

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: I actually tried this, re: Freddie in the car. My mother owns a car similar to Will's. I'm 6'3 and fat; if _I_ can squeeze myself into the foot space of the passenger seat - I had to push the seat all the way back, but still - then someone of Freddie's size and statue certainly can fit in there.


	7. 7.

**7.**

 

Hannibal left him alone for the rest of the day. He seemed to recognize Will was in dire need of space, and tried to give him as much of that as possible, given the limitations of their room; physical space wasn't within Hannibal's means, but silence was, so he gave that. One of the twin gorillas stuck his head around the door some time after 10 PM and wished them a good night.

 

A while later, Hannibal turned off the lights above his bed, leaving Will in a little pool of illumination of his own. “Feel free to help yourself to the books in my suitcase,” Hannibal offered, and turned on his side, his back to Will. “Good night.”

 

Will waited until Hannibal's breath evened into the rhythm of sleep before he slipped out of bed and padded to the window. He didn't know if Hannibal was truly asleep or faking it, and didn't care. The window pane was ice-cold against his palm. A fresh layer of snow covered the edge of the parking lot and the surrounding ground. His clothes still lay where Jack had put them, Freddie's camera rolled into them.

 

He'd have to get rid of that. If he waited much longer, he'd have to get rid of his car, too.

 

There were a lot of things he'd have to do, now.

 

Instead of a forked road leading into the future, now there was only darkness, a dense, bleak forest, no end and no beginning. Here and there the thorny branches above gave way to chequered sky, grey in darker grey.

 

_I'm alone in that darkness._

 

He'd have to live a lie. Unless he moved to another state, cut his ties with his past entirely, Will would have to uphold a carefully constructed façade of deception for the rest of his life.

 

_Did you kill Clark Ingram? Jack suspects you did._

 

The FBI had already branded him as an intelligent psychopath once, during his trial, and the slightest misstep, the littlest mishap would bring the entire construction down.

 

For now, Jack was focused on Freddie Lounds' disappearance. Sooner or later though, he'd accept that she was _gone_. Randall Tier was out there, too, needing to be dealt with. Will was convinced Hannibal had something to do with the fact that 'Mr. Bone Suit' had so far evaded imprisonment; it wasn't hard to imagine Hannibal seeking out his former patient, giving him advice on how to stay ahead of the police, of the FBI.

 

It was something Hannibal would do. It was something Hannibal _did_ – he had his personal brand of empathy, allowing him to see in others what he knew was in himself: the capacity for violence, for murder, and a tendency to accept these darker leanings. And like a gardener, he lovingly cared for his seedlings, watching them grow.

 

_Wind them up. Watch them go._

 

 _Watch_ over _them, too?_

 

Will couldn't call the things Hannibal had done today anything else but supportive. He'd gotten rid of physical evidence. He'd offered Will clothes, using Alana's visit as a reason, but the end result had been the same: Will did feel more comfortable now, clean in a purely physical sense. His irritation over having to borrow clothes had faded with the soft drag of the expensive cloth against his skin, the woolly-warm pleasure of burrowing into a too-large sweater.

 

Hannibal had taken his hand – Will's fingers curled at the sense memory, people didn't do that very often – and _soothed him_ , offering the basest of all comforts: touch.

 

Hannibal even had, abstractly, admitted _one_ reason for his actions. He had given Will a small glimpse inside, acknowledging that he wanted to be seen. That Will had been right about that.

 

Will wasn't alone in the darkness. Hannibal stood right beside him, eager to lead him further in.

 

Would that really be such a bad thing? Will was beginning to lose the certainty that it _was_.

 

*

 

Sunday. The breakfast trays had come and gone, collected by a different nurse this time. Will was crawling out of his skin with inactivity, pacing the room from wall to wall. He'd spent a part of the morning taking Freddie's camera apart while Hannibal still slept, flushing the smaller pieces down the toilet. The rest was back in his trouser pockets.

 

“You need to calm down, Will.”

 

“ _Don't_ tell me what to do.”

 

Hannibal marked the page of the book he was reading with his thumb. “You're still at odds with your true nature. You need to allow yourself to settle.”

 

Will stopped pacing. Nervousness was making him rough and careless. “I suppose _you_ crawled out of your mother's womb fully formed and _hungry_ , knife and fork in hand.”

 

The awful sarcasm brought a frown to Hannibal's face. He laid the book aside. “Of course not.”

 

Conversation was better than listening to his own thoughts going every which way. Jumping out of the window was beginning to sound better and better, in his head. Jumping on the opening Hannibal had left him was preferable. Will knew Hannibal's parents had died when he was still very young, that he'd been raised as an orphan until his uncle adopted him. “What happened to you? What made you,” he gestured, “what you are?”

 

“I happened to me.”

 

“Evasive.”

 

“Truth,” Hannibal countered.

 

Will considered. “Abused kids become abusive adults.”

 

“You think I was abused.” Hannibal appeared amused by the theory. “Not all abused children become abusive adults. The world would be a much, much darker place if that were true.”

 

The world was dark enough already. Past the pastel-coloured utopia lived by the conventional TV-spot family with their big SUVs, one dog and 2.5 kids, lurked the reality of hundreds of thousands of not-so-lucky individuals trying to make ends meet and often failing: raising their children in financial and emotional poverty, if they raised them at all.

 

Nobody was _born_ evil. Though several pre-natal behaviours of the mother – alcohol or drug abuse, environmental circumstances, even medication – could influence neurological development in the foetus, Will believed _nurture_ was a far more influential factor of a child's future than _nature_.

 

Will didn't think Hannibal had been abused in the conventional sense. He could have gone through hell, being raised an orphan, but cannibalism? That didn't come out of nowhere. That was so rare a pathology, special circumstances had to be involved.

 

“Something happened to you, when you were young.” Will chewed on his lip. He'd never truly endeavoured to immerse himself in Hannibal, not even after his incarceration. “You told me your parents died, but I don't think that was it. You...lost someone. Someone more important to you than mom and dad.”

 

Hannibal had gone still and silent, observing Will like a hawk.

 

“You ate whoever caused that loss, after you killed them. You ate them because they deserved it.” Will could almost see it. A young Hannibal, features indistinct, burning with the need for revenge. Children were capable of incredibly violent acts. “And once you had that first taste, that first delicious mouthful, you couldn't stop. Didn't want to stop.”

 

He shuddered. Revenge could be a powerful motivator – Will knew all about that. The concepts of 'right' and 'wrong' were easily distorted by that driving force. He knew all about that, too. But what circumstances would drive a _child_ to killing and eating another human being? Hunger, certainly. There weren't many beyond that which he could imagine, or _wanted_ to imagine.

 

Whatever it was, it must have been horrible.

 

“Will,” Hannibal said, “remarkable boy.”

 

Will didn't feel remarkable. He was exhausted again. Empathy was an equalizer, blind to colour, creed and law. Insight into a killer's mind went hand in hand with glimpses of their reasons. All too often, those reasons were understandable, sound even. _Good_ reasons.

 

He hadn't expected to feel _sorry_ for Hannibal.

 

_I need to get out of here._

 

*

 

Two hours later, he did.

 

“Sir, I can't allow you -”

 

“Sir, please -”

 

Will marched down the hallway, toward the elevators. Both Miller-or-Donovans followed him. The pieces of Freddie's camera jiggled about in his pockets, poking into his thigh through the cloth of his trousers. He had his car keys in hand, and come hell or high water, he was leaving.

 

“I was never put under protective custody officially,” Will told them. “I'm going to leave, on my own responsibility. Unless one of you produces a warrant for my arrest right now, I'm walking out of here, and there is nothing you can do about that.”

 

The white Miller-or-Donovan slapped a hand over the elevator button, preventing Will from pressing it. “What about that Lounds woman? Sir, you can't -”

 

“Freddie Lounds is gone. She's not going to come after me.”

 

“You can't know that. She could be in Baltimore right now.”

 

Will shrugged. “I'm still leaving. If she's going to shoot me, I'd like to die on my own property. You want to take your hand away, now. Or are you going to arrest me?”

 

His cellphone rang as he crossed the parking lot, the screen flashing Jack's number. Will opened the driver's door of his car. A sweet, pungent odour greeted him, wilting flowers, rot. He breathed through his mouth and stood by the open door, ignoring the cold creeping in under his clothes, accepting the call. “Jack.”

 

“You walk out of that hospital, you're on your own.” Jack's voice was cold, impatient. “Do you understand what I'm saying?”

 

“I do.” He'd left his FBI ID card and badge with Hannibal. “Who has my house keys?”

 

“There's an agent at your house right now. Agent Stone. She was looking after your dogs.”

 

“Thanks. I'll get them from her.”

 

“Will,” Jack sighed heavily. “I can't protect you if you won't let me. I want to protect you.”

 

The sincerity in Jack's words was offset by the knowledge that he still suspected Will as the culprit in the disappearance of Clark Ingram. Jack wanted to protect him, true, out of lingering guilt over having been a deciding factor in pushing Will Graham toward the edge, but he also wanted to keep an eye on him.

 

“I don't need protection, Jack.” Will got into his car. Inside, the odour was closer to a stench, coating the insides of his nasal passage and his tongue with a thin film of grease. He rolled down the window, swallowing down rising bile. He couldn't afford to make an enemy of Jack, and decided to let this conversation end on a less hostile note. “We'll talk later, Jack. I know what I'm doing. All right?”

 

“All right.” Jack sounded defeated.

 

“If I run across Freddie, I'll give her your regards.”

 

“Will. That's not funny.” Jack ended the call.

 

Will started the car and glanced down at the blanket-and-jacket covered lump wedged between the dashboard and the passenger's seat. Actually, it was kind of funny.

 

“Jack says hello.”

 

Freddie Lounds, predictably, didn't answer.

 

*

 

The dogs were ecstatic to see him. Agent Stone, a middle-aged, stern-faced brunette, was ecstatic to see herself off his property. Wondering who she'd pissed off to be sent on dog-sitting duty for someone who wasn't even FBI, Will watched her beat-up Nissan until it disappeared out of sight.

 

His house closed around him with familiarity. He took his first, deep cleansing breath in what felt like weeks, his arms full of happy dogs. He was chilled again, having driven all the way from Baltimore back to Wolf Trap with the window open, and lit a fire. The dogs had been well-cared for; their food dishes were filled, the water in their bowls fresh. For over an hour, Will sat with them on the floor, petting them.

 

Then he went through his house, room by room, checking for surveillance equipment. His search was made easier by the fact that there now was a lot less clutter than there had been before. He checked the obvious places – telephone, ceiling lamps, book cases, the undersides of tables and chairs – and then the less obvious ones.

 

It wasn't paranoia when you _knew_ they were out to get you. Will didn't think Jack would go so far as to bug his house, but the trust he'd once had in the other man was gone. He would have to be more careful now, in his daily conduct, in everything. Freddie Lounds by herself had managed to keep tabs on Will's movements for weeks, without his knowledge; the FBI could do so much worse, and given the right incentive, they could do it _officially_.

 

Under the cover of the night, all lights switched off, Will carried Freddie's corpse from the car to his barn. She wasn't yet in an advanced stage of decomposition, but she was beginning to bloat, particularly around the middle. Will lit an old oil lamp, the flame put on low, so he'd have just enough light to see what he was doing, and laid Freddie on a large plastic sheet, a leftover from the house renovation.

 

He switched himself off, became Lawrence Wells building his totem pole, Garret Jacob Hobbs with one of his beloved girls, every killer he'd ever encountered who experienced calm when he killed, not frenzy or rage, and went to work.

 

*

 

No calls, Monday and Tuesday. Will burned Freddie's clothes, item by item, collecting zippers, metal buckles and melted plastic from the cold ashes. The remaining camera pieces and cell phone, he ground apart with the heavy tools he used for boat motors. Freddie's press ID and the contents of her wallet, bank card, credit cards, he cut into tiny pieces, then burned them as well.

 

The dogs whined at the stench, scrabbling at the door until he let them out into the backyard. Will aired out his house for hours, wondering if he'd ever feel warm again.

 

*

 

Friday came and went. Will stayed home.

 

Hannibal didn't call, hadn't called all week, and didn't drive up in his black Bentley, either. Was this, too, something Hannibal did? Water and groom his seedlings until they took root, and then leave them to themselves?

 

Will told himself he wasn't disappointed by the lack of attention, that he didn't miss the other man. Hannibal was still at the hospital, most likely.

 

*

 

On Saturday, Jack called. “Freddie Lounds was seen near the border to Mexico, this morning.”

 

That wasn't possible. “Who saw her?”

 

“Gas station manager just before the border called it in. We have her on video. Want to look?”

 

Will drove to Quantico. Impossible. _Impossible_. Freddie Lounds was dead.

 

At the forensic lab, visitor's badge pinned to his lapel – Jack eyed it with contempt, but didn't comment – Will watched grainy video footage of a woman with bright red curls purchase a cup of coffee and a candy bar. She kept her head down, long hair falling into her face. She was dressed in tight Jeans, flat, heavy-sole boots, thick winter jacket.

 

“She knew where the camera was,” Price commented. “Look how she casually keeps turning away from it? We've gone over the footage frame by frame, but we can't get a clear shot of her face.”

 

 _That's not Freddie Lounds_. Freddie Lounds lay scattered in a fifty-mile radius of Will's farm, a piece here, a piece there, and such _small_ pieces. By the time the snow and the ice melted, there'd be nothing left of her, all of it decomposed, worn down, carried away by animals. Eaten. Will had burned her boots, this morning.

 

“Anything from the border stations?”

 

“Nothing. We don't know what car she drove, either, or if she crossed the border at all. We notified San Diego PD and they went over the security footage of their cameras for us – nada.” Price rewound the camera footage to the start. “If she did cross the border...”

 

She'd be outside of American jurisdiction now, more or less, in a country where the FBI's reach was severely limited. Will knew, of course, that she wasn't in Mexico. Whoever that woman on the video was bore a startling resemblance to Freddie, but it wasn't her.

 

Maybe it was enough that Jack believed it was her, though.

 

*

 

Jack accompanied Will to the visitor's parking lot. “Why do I feel as if things are slipping past my fingers?”

 

The question was moot, rhetorical; things _were_ slipping past his fingers. The Horse Hounder case was stalled at Clark Ingram, who Will knew would never reappear again. Mr. Bone Suit, Randall Tier, was still a free man. Jack had lost two members of his team – Will and Beverly – and now Freddie was gone, too. His wife was dying from terminal lung cancer. Even the capture of the Chesapeake Ripper – the capture of who Jack believed had been the Chesapeake Ripper – couldn't disguise the fact that things had unravelled at an alarmingly fast rate, and were still unravelling.

 

“Take a break,” Will suggested. “Put some distance between you and this stuff. Trust me, it helps to put things into perspective.”

 

“Like it did for you? You want me to turn into a hermit, living in the middle of nowhere with a pack of dogs? Quit my job?”

 

“If it helps.”

 

“Do you still believe Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper?” Jack asked bluntly.

 

“I believe Hannibal and I have issues between us that still need to be resolved.”

 

“But you don't still believe he's a killer.”

 

“Do you think _I_ am a killer?”

 

Jack regarded Will with a frown. “You've changed. You're not the Will Graham I used to know.”

 

No answer was an answer too, supposedly. Will leaned against the side of his car. “And yet you keep coming back to me. Inviting me to cases,” he nodded at the building behind them, “showing me video footage. Make up your mind, Jack. Am I a suspect, or do you want me to solve cases for you?”

 

Jack's expression darkened. The small barb had hit home. “I'll see you around,” he offered stiffly, and marched away.

 

Of that, Will had no doubt. This was Baltimore, after all: Psychopath Central.

 

*

 

Late Sunday morning, Hannibal called. Will stood in his kitchen, preparing a feast for the dogs and fending off their attempts of stealing morsels from the cutting board.

 

“You missed your appointment on Friday.”

 

“Sorry. I thought you were still at the hospital. How's the leg?”

 

“Better. I'd like to invite you to dinner, tomorrow evening.”

 

Will laid the knife down. 'Dinner' conjured up unfortunate images of faceless, nameless strangers being hacked into pieces with a butcher's loving care, organs removed, Hannibal in his grey kitchen, apron around his waist, shirt sleeves rolled up. Will's stomach did a slow roll.

 

“I'll prepare a vegetarian dish,” Hannibal said slyly. “Please. I would give me great pleasure.”

 

The warm tone of voice wrapped around Will like silk. His reservations were crumbling. He wanted to see Hannibal, a part of him fiercely insistent he accept the invitation. Another part was more reluctant, afraid he'd only tangle himself further into his self-made web.

 

Distantly, he heard himself agree. “Do I need to bring anything?”

 

“Just yourself. Tomorrow evening at nine?”

 

A little later than the usual dinner times, but it wasn't as if there were any pressing matters Will had to attend to, now that the immediate threat of the discovery of Freddie's corpse was gone. “Sounds good.”

 

“Thank you.” Hannibal sounded genuinely happy. “I'll see you then. Have a nice day.”

 

Mechanically, Will went through the rest of the preparations for the dog food. It wouldn't be so bad. Hannibal was a kindred spirit now, wasn't he? Will had to lay the knife aside again, mildly disturbed at his thoughts.

 

One piece of meat on the table, he told himself, and he'd be gone.

 

*

 

The sky turned dark early, on Monday, threatening more snow during the night. The winter just didn't seem to want to end. Will started getting ready at seven, going from room to room to close windows and make sure they were locked. The clothes Hannibal had lent him waited in a satchel by the front door, ready to be returned to their owner.

 

He was on the second floor, checking the window in the guest bedroom he never used, when the dogs started barking. A glance out the window showed nothing; no car was driving up.

 

Will returned to the first floor to find his dogs clustered by the back door. “What's up, boys?” Maybe an animal had wandered out of the forest bordering on Will's property, a deer, a fox, something. That wasn't unusual, in this neck of the woods.

 

Will opened the back door to take a look. Buster, the wily Jack Russel terrier, slipped past him and outside, disappearing toward the edge of the forest, barking like mad. With difficulty, Will managed to hold the other dogs back from following.

 

“Buster!” Great. If he wanted to make his dinner appointment in time, he had to leave in forty minutes, not chase a dog through the bushes. Eyeing the trail Buster had left in the knee-high snow, Will called again. “Buster!”

 

Faint, ecstatic barking caused the dogs still in the house to join in.

 

And then, distantly, a short, sharp yip of a dog in pain. The others fell silent as if switched off.

 

The blood froze in Will's veins. Wolves and bears sometimes found their way to this edge of the county, driven from their natural mountain habitats by hunger, when the winters were long. Three years ago, a mountain lion had made the barn his home for a few days, eventually wandering on. The downside to living far away from the city was that one lived closer to nature, and all the dangers that brought.

 

Will grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door, wading through the agitated dogs to his work bank. He retrieved the hunting rifle he kept mounted under it, concerns about being late for his dinner appointment wiped away. Buster had run into _something_ , and Will wasn't going to leave a member of his family to fend for himself.

 

He followed the trail up the gentle slope that marked the beginning of the forest, calling for Buster again and again. The snow reflected the moonlight, making the trees cast bizarre shadows.

 

Buster lay on his side just past the cusp of the slope, panting. Whatever had attacked him wasn't there any more, but it had left a mark: the small dog's back, between neck and shoulders, looked like something had taken a bite out of it. Dropping to his knees next to the pitifully whining dog, Will scooped him up as gently as possible, scanning the nearby line of trees.

 

Something was out there.

 

Something was watching.

 

Buster snarled at a deep pocket of shadows, less than twenty feet away. Will caught a reflection of moonlight on metal.

 

He ran back to the house, Buster clasped under his arm, the breath burning in his lungs. He looked over his shoulder once, saw the shadows spit out a grotesque figure, snow flying up as the thing pursued.

 

House. Screen door. Back door. Will acted on instinct, placing the injured dog in a doggy bed, sparing a moment to check the injury. Tooth marks, claw marks – but not deep. Superficial wounds that appeared worse than they truly were.

 

He switched off the lights, rifle still in hand, and retreated from the door until he felt a wall behind him.

 

And waited. Few wild animals would attempt to enter a house, especially not one that smelled of dogs.

 

This wasn't a wild animal. This was a man who wanted to _be_ one.

 

The attack, when it came, came from Will's left.

 

The dogs barked again, frenzied. The window over the bed shattered inward, something large flying through. Four limbs. Arms and legs. _Teeth_. The truck driver and the couple had been mauled, literally torn apart. For a split second, Will was all too aware of the vulnerability of his own, mortal limbs – skin, blood and bones against engineered death.

 

Anger took over. This was his house, his _home_.

 

He swung the rifle around, butt first. The solid crack of wood against bone jarred, turning his fingers nerveless, but it had been enough to divert the path of the open maw coming toward him. Teeth snapped shut inches in front of his face, as long as his palm was wide, sharp.

 

They stumbled apart. Past the rows of teeth, behind the skull mask – what _was_ that? Bear? - a pair of eyes that had nothing human in them peered at Will, sizing him up.

 

“I will end you,” Will promised.

 

Randall Tier, if he was still capable of speech, sunk this far into his alter ego, his true ego, didn't reply. He took a fast swipe at Will's front, elongated claws slicing through the canvas cloth of Will's jacket and the few layers of sweater, shirt and skin beneath. The explosive boom of the rifle going off sent the dogs into the corners, whining and whimpering. Randall jerked back, amid a small shower of bone fragments.

 

 _Shoulder_ , Will diagnosed, retreating swiftly to have more room. The darkness and the bone suit made it hard to tell if the shot had pierced or not. And if it would make a difference, if it had. Tier had to be fully immersed now, like a junkie riding the high of a fix. People like that were so far gone from reality, they felt no pain.

 

Will fired a second shot, just as Tier threw himself forward. This time, the bone mask fractured, part of the jaw and cheek flying away. They fell to the floor, Will dropping the rifle to have the use of both hands as he fought to keep the claws away from himself. Tier was – magnificent. Wild. He angled his head and drove forward. Only a wild jerk to the side saved Will from having his face impaled on the remaining teeth. They struck the floor instead, an inch from Will's ear.

 

Randall Tier had a bone suit and blood lust. Will had more than a decade's worth of police training.

 

He managed to get his knee between them and levered Tier off and to the side, letting the other man's weight drag him along and ending up sitting astride him. The glimpse of doubt and surprise crossing Tier's face fuelled Will's anger, sharpened it into something lethal.

 

This was his _home_. This was _his_ life Tier had come to take.

 

With a rough cry of his own, Will drove his fist into the gap of the mask. Bone sliced into his hand, hard and sharp, but the face he'd aimed at gave with a satisfying _crunch_.

 

Tier's cry of pain was more satisfying.

 

Three times, Will punched him. On the second punch, the rest of the bone mask slipped sideways, jerked from its fastenings by the force of Will's blows. The face revealed underneath the bear skull was young – and full of confusion. Tier couldn't understand that he was losing, had lost. He'd rushed his previous victims, gaining the upper hand by the element of surprise.

 

“There's always a _bigger_ animal,” Will snarled, delivering a fourth blow with all his weight behind it.

 

Tier's nose crushed under it. With a low grunt, the young man went still.

 

Will dropped to the side, crawling off his senseless adversary.

 

*

 

Hannibal was smiling broadly when he opened the door. “Bad roads, Will? The weather forecast –”

 

If Will had been in the mood, he would have laughed at the expression on Hannibal's face, watching the smile slip and make way for utter surprise. He wasn't. “Move.”

 

Randall Tier stumbled forward, severely hampered in his movement. Without his bone suit, he was a lot less impressive. Just a young man wearing a black overall and combat boots, the right side of his face black and blue, his nose crooked, one eye swollen shut. Will had shoved an old dish rag into his mouth and used another to bind it in place. A dog leash was looped around Tier's neck, pulled tight down his back, to his tied wrists. Over it all, he wore one of Will's old coats.

 

Wordless, Hannibal stepped back to let them enter the house. He held himself carefully, eyeing the gun in Will's hand.

 

“One word,” Will warned. He steered Tier toward the kitchen, letting the heavy canvas bag and the satchel slide off his shoulder to the floor before pushing him over the threshold. “Sit. On the _floor_.”

 

Tier hesitated. Will kicked him in the back of the knee, yanking the coat off of him as Tier went down with a muffled sound of pain. Gun trained on the prone man, Will stepped around him and threw the coat over the chair in the corner. He backed up, positioning himself so he had a clear shot of Tier _and_ Hannibal, who appeared in the doorway, slowly and cautiously.

 

“Tell me you didn't send him to me,” Will challenged, “and I'll shoot you where you stand.”

 

Hannibal looked him over, and remained silent. His expression had changed from vivid surprise to calculation, as though he was evaluating the truth behind Will's threat. Undoubtedly, the situation reminded him of another time, when Will had dragged a psychopath into Hannibal's home – Will certainly remembered showing up on Hannibal's doorstep with Abel Gideon in tow.

 

This time, Will wasn't under the mind-altering influence of encephalitis. “Why?”

 

Hannibal licked his lips. “I was...curious. I wanted to see what would happen.”

 

Will didn't believe him for one second. “Bullshit.”

 

“Language, Will.”

 

Will lowered the gun and fired. The bullet went through the meaty part of Tier's thigh and into the floor. Tier howled, dropping to the side and curling around his injured limb, choking and gagging as he pulled on his bound wrists.

 

“Try again.”

 

Hannibal had backed up a step when the gun went off. “Someone will have heard that.”

 

“Nobody heard Freddie Lounds shooting you, either.” Cocking the hammer of the gun, Will switched to a one-handed hold. Tier was bleeding copiously, but it would take a while for him to bleed out from the gunshot wound, if he didn't choke himself first. “Let's make one thing clear.” He walked around the kitchen counters, keeping both men in his line of sight. “Your little games? End now. I'm not your lab rat, Hannibal. Tell me the _truth_.”

 

“Consider it an act of reciprocity.”

 

Revenge for Matthew Brown. Will hesitated. Yes, from that angle, the appearance of Randall Tier made sense. He snorted. “Polite society normally places such a taboo on taking life. And here we are.”

 

“Without death, we'd be at a loss.” Hannibal came into the kitchen, giving the man on the floor a wide berth. “It's the prospect of death that drives us to greatness.”

 

“How apt. Stay where you are.”

 

Hannibal tutted. “I only wish to help you. You are injured, Will.”

 

“So is Randall.”

 

Hannibal turned smoothly. Before Will could intervene, he knelt by Tier's side and gripped the young man's head in both hands. A short, sharp jerk and crack of bone ended the short, bloody career of Mr. Bone Suit. Hannibal rose again, calm as you please. “Not any more.”

 

The only thought going through Will's head was, _I wanted to do that._

 

“Lower the gun,” Hannibal coaxed.

 

Will lowered the gun. Thrown off-track, like a car suddenly jammed into neutral, he laid it on the kitchen counter. _Reciprocity_. He'd all but forgotten sending Matthew Brown after Hannibal. Was that what they were, now? Killers engaged in a game of one-upmanship, until one of them got lucky?

 

“Don't do that again.” Hannibal was approaching from the side, slowly, hands in plain sight, as one would approach a spooked animal. Will gestured at Tier's crumbled body. “He was in my _house_. He injured one of my dogs.”

 

Hannibal caught his gesturing hand, cradling it. Gently, he inspected the wounds – small tears and scratches mostly, but also a few deep cuts, from when Will had punched into the gap in Tier's mask. Will's knuckles were a mess. “I don't plan on sending anyone else after you. I want you very much alive.”

 

And if Tier had won tonight? Would Hannibal be standing in this kitchen now, offering the same comfort to Mr. Bone Suit? “Was this just an act of reciprocity, or did you want me to prove myself?”

 

“A bit of both,” Hannibal admitted. He smiled again, full of pride, and reached up, knuckles gliding over Will's jaw.

 

Coming from anyone else, the caress would have put Will on edge. If he hadn't already established that he _liked_ it when Hannibal touched him like that, he would have pulled away. Now, he found himself leaning into it, enjoying it. Hannibal had never been very tactile with him, but maybe, now that they were on more even footing, Will wasn't the only one letting go of some inhibitions. “I don't know if that makes me feel better.”

 

Because really, Hannibal had gambled. Will wasn't immortal, neither of them was. One mistake, one slip; if Tier had been just a little bit faster, Will could have died tonight.

 

He hadn't. Victory still streamed through Will's veins like gold, albeit it was a low-key euphoria. Now that the tension was wearing off, he was feeling tired, mostly.

 

And inexplicably hungry. “What's for dinner?”

 

Hannibal glanced at Tier's body on the floor.

 

“No,” Will said, and pulled away. “Absolutely not.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“It's wrong.”

 

“Is it? It's meat.” Hannibal lifted Will's hand, and this time, he did kiss it. His lips moved over the split knuckles, the tip of his tongue flicking out at the dried blood. “There are many cultures where consuming part of your enemy is a way of honouring them. You were Randall Tier's enemy. How will you honour him?”

 

Will felt that quick flick of wet heat all the way down into his belly, and lost his train of thought entirely. He was as much surprised by his own reaction as by Hannibal's forwardness; _that_ had come entirely out of left field. “Are you coming _on_ to me?”

 

“Yes,” Hannibal said simply. He lifted an eyebrow. “Isn't it obvious?”

 

*  



	8. 8.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some sex. And some plot!

**8.**

 

_Your name is Will Graham. It's 10 PM, Monday, and you're in Baltimore, Maryland. A man who wanted to be an animal attacked you in your house tonight, and your psychiatrist – who, by the way, manipulated you for the better part of a year and ultimately caused your imprisonment – killed him. Your psychiatrist also just came on to you._

 

Rooted to the spot between Hannibal and the kitchen counter, Will repeated those thoughts like a mantra, twice, three times, four. He wasn't imagining things. This, he hadn't anticipated – the possibility that Hannibal could be interested in him in more than one way had never crossed his mind, because _Alana_. Because there just hadn't been any indication, ever, that Hannibal was inclined that way.

 

“Alana,” Will said, stupidly. “Wait, what -”

 

“Inconsequential.” Hannibal let go of Will's hand, crowding him against the edge of the counter. He was visibly, _obviously_ turned on: pupils blown, keenly fixated gaze, nostrils flaring as he leaned in and inhaled deeply. He wasn't leaning against Will, but with his hands on either side of him, flat on the counter, it wasn't hard to deduce that he _wanted_ to. “It has always been you.”

 

 _I'm straight. I'm sorry, but I'm not_ -

 

“I want you,” Hannibal said, “any way I can have you. _Every_ way I can have you.”

 

\- and that went straight to Will's dick, ignoring previous, never-challenged sexual inclinations. 'Straight as an arrow' seemed such a fluid concept, suddenly, and even though a part of Will was spinning madly in place, trying to catch up to the events of the last five minutes, another part reacted with a surge of want that left him weak in the knees.

 

“Fuck,” Will said, breathily, caught between arousal and surprise, and Hannibal smiled.

 

“That's the idea, yes.” Hannibal dropped to his knees.

 

The sight burned itself into Will's brain. He'd imagined Hannibal on his knees. Not like this, though. _This_ had never occurred to him. He wasn't prepared for how it made him feel – wanted, yes, _adored_ , Hannibal staring up at Will like he was the best thing, ever; powerful, because Hannibal was on his knees _for him_ and he gripped the edge of the counter, to keep himself upright, to keep himself from gripping –

 

Hannibal dragged a finger along Will's zipper, smiling genially. “May I?”

 

Will had to fight the urge to thrust his hips forward. He wanted – Lord help him, he _wanted_. It had been so long. He scraped together the few remaining brain cells that weren't firing carnal urges along his neural pathways, a painstaking endeavour with Hannibal practically breathing him in. “What happens if I say no?”

 

“Then I'll be terribly disappointed. But I will accept your decision. I'm many things. I am not a rapist.” Hannibal framed Will's hips with both hands. “I told you: any and every way I can have you. Are you saying no, Will?”

 

They could negotiate the finer details later. They would have to – Alana, for one, and how was this going to change the already volatile physics of their relationship? Will swallowed dryly. He felt every single one of Hannibal's fingers, even with the layers of cloth between them, and the reasons why they should _not_ do this were becoming less important by the second. They –

 

To hell with the consequences.

 

Will shook his head.

 

Hannibal had him pinned against the counter, his face buried in Will's crotch, the next moment. Hannibal shoved Will's sweater and shirt up and licked a wet stripe across his lower belly. He popped the button of Will's trousers and lowered the zipper, hooking a finger into the waistband of Will's shorts, dragging it down. Will's dick bobbed up, eager, brushing against Hannibal's chin.

 

 _He eats_ people _with that mouth. The Chesapeake Ripper never left any signs of sexual assault on his victims, but he cuts out pieces, and he puts those pieces into his mouth, and he_ chews _them._

 

Will stared down, transfixed, feeling every hair rise. The danger so close to a vulnerable part of his body was as much of a turn-on as it was repelling, leaving him holding his breath, tense from a cocktail of anticipation and dread. Hannibal kissed the tip of his dick, and took the whole thing in his wide, slick mouth. The heat – the tight, wet suction – obliterated coherent thought. Will exhaled a moan. Awareness narrowed down to focal points. He'd forgotten how good that felt.

 

Hannibal liberated one of Will's hands from its death grip on the counter and guided it to his head, holding it there. He stared up at Will, demanding – he couldn't mean –

 

Will's fingers threaded through Hannibal's hair of their own volition. He'd never done this to any of the women he'd slept with, finding it didn't belong in the gentle lovemaking he preferred. Had preferred. The dark eyes staring up at him were a demand and a challenge rolled into one. Will slid his hips forward, and Hannibal _gagged_ , sinking even lower on his knees, his gaze riveted to Will's face. Will tightened his grip. He had Hannibal on his knees, suppliant, and it felt so good to drive into that slickness. He did it again, and again, and then Hannibal made a sound in the back of his throat, urging him on, and the tension coiling in the small of Will's back, in his thighs, in his nipples and balls and belly, unfolded. Sensation rushed inward from his limbs to his loins.

 

Teeth scraped against sensitive, thin skin on the next thrust. Will cried out, and climaxed, the world turning white around the edges on the dual sensations of ecstasy and danger.

 

Hannibal swallowed, and then he licked him clean, tucking him back into his shorts with gentle efficiency. His lips were swollen, reddened, shiny with spit. It was a good look on him, Will decided, scandalized and smug at the same time, heaving for breath. He still had a tight grip on Hannibal's hair; impulsively, he leaned down, tugging Hannibal's head back and kissing him.

 

Hannibal's lips curved against his. He rose slowly, doing nothing to dislodge Will's hand but everything to keep their mouths together. The kiss was tame, compared to what Will had just done to him, what Hannibal had _let_ him do, incredibly intimate. Hannibal leaned against him, trapping him against the counter. He stopped Will's free hand from worming between their bodies, guiding it to his hip instead.

 

Will pulled away from the kiss. “No?”

 

“No need.” Hannibal pecked him on the lips. “You taste wonderful.”

 

It took Will a minute to decipher the meaning behind the words. When he did, he teetered between awkward relief and gleeful smugness. He'd made Hannibal come without having to lay a finger on him – or fed right into a serious oral fixation. Sex and sustenance were closely linked as driving primal urges, and for a cannibal, having a part of another person's body in their mouth had to be a seriously erotic experience. It was consummation of another kind.

 

“Come,” Hannibal said, “let's get you settled somewhere more comfortable.”

 

'Somewhere' turned out to be the bedroom Will had already seen pictures of. Despite or probably _because_ of his earlier roughness, Will felt unaccustomedly clingy. He should have been dissecting this – Hannibal's motives, his own eagerness, the ramifications – but couldn't bring himself to shatter the afterglow. The bedroom was warm and dark, a single small lamp softening the corners and edges. Hannibal tugged Will's jacket off, slipped his hands up under Will's sweater and shirt, mapping his back and ribs with slow, firm touches.

 

Will toed his shoes off, trying not to melt under the attention. He knew he was probably touch-starved, following the years of abstinence since his last girlfriend, that he shouldn't let it dismantle him the way it did – that he should be freaking out, considering _who_ was doing the touching. Alana had more than likely slept in this bed –

 

“Don't go inside,” Hannibal murmured, lips against Will's temple. “Stay with me.”

 

Will huffed. “Where else would I go?”

 

“You have everywhere to go.” Hannibal nosed into the curls over Will's ear, tracing the dip of his spine. “Do you want to leave? You owe me nothing. Only honesty.”

 

Will couldn't decide if Hannibal was talking about right this moment, or if he was referencing a broader time frame, or if the question was on an entirely esoteric level. He didn't _want_ to decide, to think. Not now. He was testing what it felt like to wrap his arms around a much larger body than he was used to, how he fit, slotted against Hannibal. What Hannibal smelled like – expensive aftershave, musk, something darker, earthier – and what it would be like, falling asleep wrapped around him.

 

The sexual identity crisis he'd anticipated once the urgency of wanting to rut, to _fuck_ , wore off, wasn't happening. In light of everything else that had recently surfaced from the bottom of his psyche, latent bisexual leanings were a minor revelation, and rather not worth the bother of intense navel-gazing.

 

“Honestly, right now? I want to sleep. In this bed. With you.” Will pushed his hands under Hannibal's suit jacket, finding small buttons and undoing them. “You can diagnose me in the morning, _doctor_.”

 

Hannibal was undeniably male under the three-piece-suit, more muscular than Will had expected. He had faded scars and not-so-faded scars and chest hair and a slight softness around the middle that came from eating sumptuous meals and leading a comparatively sedentary lifestyle. By unspoken mutual consent, they kept their underpants on. Hannibal excused himself to go to the bathroom, leaving Will to crawl into the wide, soft bed by himself.

 

When Hannibal returned, he wore different shorts. Will hid his grin in the pillow.

 

*

 

In the middle of the night, Will woke to an empty bed. Disoriented, he disentangled himself from the blankets and sat up. The bedroom door allowed a sliver of light from the hallway outside to let him know where he was, dissipating the moment's confused panic. A delicious scent was in the air, making his mouth water. They'd never sat down to dinner.

 

Hannibal was either in the bathroom, or he'd decided to cook. Will was too tired to want to verify either possibility, and burrowed back under the blankets.

 

*

 

He woke a second time, to the mattress dipping next to him. The window was a square of dark grey bisected by blinds. Hannibal kissed the back of his shoulder and wrapped a possessive arm around him, hand splayed large and warm on Will's chest. Very lightly, he scraped the edge of a fingernail over Will's nipple, teasing the small nub.

 

Will wasn't truly awake, wasn't really asleep, either. His dick stirred with interest, but it was a removed, distant sensation, with nothing of the earlier, mindless need to it. He craned his head around, searching for a kiss. Hannibal tasted of _meat_ and spices _._

 

Will woke up the rest of the way and rolled onto his back. There was just enough light for him to see that Hannibal had changed into pyjama pants and a V-necked sweater, indistinctly dark coloured. The smell of cooked meat was a lot closer now, almost overwhelming.

 

Hannibal liberated his arm and reached for something on the night stand behind him, coming back with a small plate, which he carefully balanced on Will's belly on top of the blanket. On it, quartered like an orange, lay a fist-sized piece of meat.

 

Time slowed to a crawl. Hannibal picked up one of the slices and ate half of it. The other half, he held up to Will's mouth, offering it.

 

If he refused the morsel, Hannibal would eat all of it while Will watched. He wouldn't be angry, or disappointed. He'd accept the refusal, just as he would have accepted a 'no' earlier, in the kitchen. Arbitrarily, Will recalled something Hannibal had told him in the hospital: _what hatches from the chrysalis is beyond me_. Hannibal accepted that whatever emerged from a cocoon of his making wasn't necessarily something he could control – a curious leniency for an intelligent sadist.

 

Then again, nothing about Hannibal was really textbook, was it?

 

A drop of fat landed on Will's lips, trickled in between the seam. The taste was ordinary, known: cooked meat with spices, a hint of wine.

 

Would it really be so wrong? It wasn't like Will _hadn't_ already partaken in the consummation of human flesh; he had yet to develop an eating disorder in the wake of all the meals he'd eaten at Hannibal's table or from ceramic bowls. And he knew exactly _whom_ this meat came from.

 

Randall Tier had meant to kill him. He would have ripped Will apart. He would have _wasted_ Will, honouring no part of him.

 

Will opened his mouth. Took a small bite. Chewed.

 

Swallowed.

 

Hannibal leaned down and kissed him, sharing the flavour between them. Will's stomach clenched, but it was from hunger, not revulsion. _Just this once_ , he told himself, accepting the next bite Hannibal offered, and the next, and the one after that.

 

 _Just this once_.

 

*

 

Will woke curved against Hannibal's back, arm thrown over him. He felt every one of this thirty-nine years, bones and muscles aching from the fight with Tier, knuckles stinging when he moved his fingers, the cuts and bruises he'd sustained a vivid reminder that it had really happened.

 

That Hannibal had sent Tier _to_ him, or at the very least told Tier where he lived. Deep down, Will was angry about that – he'd meant every word, about games and lab rats – but on the other hand, Tier was dead now. Another threat removed.

 

By Hannibal's own hand, no less.

 

If Will called the police now, called Jack – surely a case could be made – there was evidence –

 

They'd both end up in prison. Hannibal had killed Randall Tier, but Will had brought Tier here. The empty plate on the night stand and the lingering taste in Will's mouth were as much evidence against Hannibal as they were against Will.

 

And this was – nice. No, better: this felt _safe_. For now. Hannibal accepted the darkness in Will; as much as he wanted to be seen, he _saw_ as well. Hannibal was probably the only person on the planet who understood the changes Will had gone through – all right, had _initiated_ the changes, but still – and wouldn't judge him for them.

 

“I can hear you thinking.”

 

Will raised himself on his elbow. Hannibal's eyes were shut, but a small smile sat in the corner of his mouth. He shifted slowly over onto his back, sneaking an arm around Will and tugging him close. Lightly, he asked, “Having regrets, Will?”

 

Regrets, no. Will shook his head. “We need to talk about this.” It was too tempting not to, so Will sprawled half over the other man, cheek against Hannibal's chest. “Not just _this,_ ” he twirled a hand, indicating the bedroom, “but...how is this supposed to work? What do you _want_ from me?”

 

“You,” Hannibal said. “I want you. It really is that simple.”

 

 _Any way I can have you. Every way I can have you._ Will let that sink in, this time with a clear mind. It wasn't simple. People usually wanted him for different reasons. Jack wanted him for his unique ability to empathize with killers, but hadn't been prepared for, or had severely underestimated, the side-effects. Alana was all too aware of the side-effects resulting in an unstable personality; she'd wanted to be his friend, had wanted to save him.

 

Well, Will was stable now, just in ways he couldn't hope Alana was ever going to understand or want to be supportive of. Especially not this last development.

 

Beverly had really been the only one taking Will at face value. And Abigail.

 

And Hannibal had killed them both.

 

Beverly – that had been an act of self-preservation, Will was certain. She must have found something linking Hannibal to the Chesapeake Ripper or the Copycat murders. Will had killed Freddie Lounds out of self-preservation; he couldn't really point fingers at Hannibal for something he'd done himself.

 

But Abigail? What had Abigail ever done to Hannibal to suffer her eventual fate? She'd been a victim, through and through; first of her father's, then of the machinations between Hannibal and Will.

 

There were so many jarring aspects to the events leading up to here, Hannibal had to be delusional if he believed Will would just forget them. It _wasn't_ simple. Having a relationship beyond the conventional patient-therapist boundaries wasn't going to solve those problems or make the past go away.

 

Then there was Jack to consider. Jack who, if he got a whiff of _this_ , would push for Will to being admitted to the BSHCI on grounds of insanity, if he didn't go insane himself, first.

 

“I don't even know where to start.” Will raised his head. “This isn't sustainable. One of us is going to get caught. And even if we're not, there's – there's so much _wrong_ with this.”

 

“Like?”

 

“Abigail? The fact that you framed me for her murder, and not only hers? Alana? I had encephalitis, Hannibal, and you kept that from me. You can't honestly expect us to just set up house and pretend none of that happened.”

 

“I'm not. I am working, very hard, at making it up to you.” Hannibal chose his words with obvious care. “I framed you for those murders because you were getting too close to the truth, and you were not yet ready to accept it.”

 

“Accept the changes _you_ brought about, you mean.”

 

“Yes. You left me with no options, Will. My freedom means a lot to me. You were beginning to see the pattern to the Copycat murders, and it was either framing you for them and making you take my place in the Baltimore State Hospital, or...”

 

“Or?”

 

“Or killing you, to remove you as a threat. I hope you see why I chose the first option.”

 

Will looked away. Given the choice between sitting in that cell himself and seeing someone else behind the bars, he would have done the same. An ugly truth, but _truth._ A tiny, dim cell, where people like Chilton had unlimited access to him and personal rights weren't worth the paper they were printed on – no. Never again. “Next time, kill me.”

 

Hannibal cupped the back of Will's head. “There won't be a next time. I am sorry. I hope that one day, you will be able to forgive me.”

 

The sincerity was hard to resist. Will didn't know if he had it in him to forgive, but he could already see himself try. “What about Alana?”

 

“I will end my relationship with Doctor Bloom, of course.”

 

“Just like that?”

 

“I respect her. I will not do her the discourtesy of cheating on her.”

 

“What if I never...” Will trailed off. Hannibal would choose, _chose_ him over Alana. He was in bed with Hannibal _now_. They were working through some serious issues, painful issues, and he was letting Hannibal touch him – had never stopped touching him himself, plastered against Hannibal's side, their legs entangled, Will's arm wrapped around him. “Don't kill her.”

 

“Not unless I have to.”

 

“That's not very reassuring.”

 

“It's the truth. You told me you prefer sins of omission to lies. Do you want me to lie?”

 

Will didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Prison, or killing someone to keep a secret safe? He'd killed Freddie Lounds. He'd never been in love with Freddie, though, had resented her. Resented her even now, for snooping around. He couldn't even begin to imagine doing the same to Alana, but then, he'd never thought himself capable of a lot of the things he'd done recently.

 

“I don't know,” Will said, “I don't know anything right now.”

 

Hannibal stroked the back of his neck. “I will not pressure you. I'm afraid I've done too much of that already, in my eagerness. I would like to have you here,” he patted the bed with his free hand, “and _often_ , but I'll be just as content having you as a friend.”

 

*

 

The rest of the morning was a display of surreal domesticity.

 

Hannibal fussed over the injuries Will had sustained in the fight with Randall Tier, insisting he take a shower before descending on him with salve and bandages. Will's clothes were spirited away while he brushed his teeth, for washing and drying.

 

“I can't stay here all day,” Will protested. “I've got a broken window to take care of, at home.”

 

He also couldn't leave his dogs to themselves for that long. After trussing Tier up, he'd taken a closer look at Buster's wounds, glad to see they were really superficial and required no trip to the veterinary clinic in Wolf Trap. He'd put a plastic sheet over the broken window, swept up the glass, and locked the dogs in another room, but they couldn't stay in there all day.

 

“An hour to wash, forty minutes to dry.” Hannibal presented the clothes Will had been meaning to return to him, the ones he'd worn at Johns Hopkins. “I'll make breakfast. Two hours, and you'll be on the road. Yes?”

 

Will gave in. “All right.”

 

Tier's body was gone from the kitchen floor when Will came downstairs, with only a bullet hole as a reminder that he'd ever been there. The canvas bag with Tier's bone suit sat in a corner of the kitchen, inconspicuous next to a metal garbage bin.

 

Hannibal served scrambled eggs, halved grapefruit, freshly baked bread rolls, and strong coffee. They ate in the study, in rather more informal surroundings than the dining room, each in his own, comfortable armchair, something light and airy pouring from hidden speakers.

 

A thought wormed its way to the front of Will's mind, past the restlessness and the enjoyment of a filling meal. “Where is the rest of Tier's body?”

 

Hannibal glanced at him over the rim of his cup. “Feeling creative, Will?”

 

There'd be no point to just making Mr. Bone Suit disappear. The world had a right to know of his fate. Jack had a right to know. Jack _needed_ to know that he didn't have to look for this one any longer, the way he was still looking for Clark Ingram.

 

Will himself wasn't going to be satisfied with a disappearing act. “Something like that.” He had a few vague ideas, nothing concrete. “I don't know yet what I'll do.”

 

“I can keep him here, until you've decided.”

 

“Isn't that a bit risky?”

 

Hannibal deliberated for a moment. “There are places in this house specifically designed to suit my needs. You won't find them, even if you know they exist, unless you tear it all down.”

 

*

 

At the door, dressed in clothes still warm from the dryer, Will didn't know whether to just say good bye, or to embrace Hannibal, or to kiss him. He didn't know what they were, now. What he wanted them to be, or not to be. “Feels weird, knowing I'll be back here on Friday for therapy.”

 

Hannibal was still in his casual pyjama pants and sweater. “Do you really still _need_ therapy?”

 

Will hadn't _needed_ it in the first place, though every psychiatrist on the planet other than Hannibal would probably disagree with him. The pretence he'd set out under, when resuming his therapy, had lost its meaning completely. “No, I suppose not.”

 

“Perhaps we should call it a date, then.”

 

The suggestion made Will want to titter. Weekly _dates_ with Hannibal. Hello, Twilight Zone. Even for him and his rather atrocious history of relationships, that was reaching new heights of absurdity, regardless of intended outcome.

 

He leaned up, placing a dry kiss on Hannibal's smile. “See you Friday.”

 

*

 

Will replaced the broken window pane himself. His fight with Randall Tier had left very few other traces, other than a few scuff marks on the floorboards easily covered up with a carpet and easily explained away, should anyone come to ask about them.

 

Buster was recovering beautifully, already back to his old, wily self. In the afternoon, Will took the dogs out on a walk that lead him up the slope where Tier had attacked the dog. He found nothing of Tier's presence there; if there had been traces, they were long since gone under a new layer of fresh snow.

 

*

 

Thursday evening, Hannibal called. “Since you are not my patient any longer, please come to my home tomorrow evening, not my office.”

 

Will sat on the floor, surrounded by dogs and boat motor parts, gingerly holding the phone between two greasy fingers. The junk yard owner in Wolf Trap, where he acquired most of his hobby 'supplies', had referred a friend to him, landing Will with an actual, paying project. It was an easy 500 bucks for a day's work.

 

Hannibal's request made him remember the way Hannibal had knelt before him, in the kitchen, and he felt a surge of heat. “Got anything special planned that we can't do at the office?”

 

“Work and pleasure, Will. I like to keep the two separate.”

 

“That's not really true, is it?”

 

“In your case, it is.”

 

Will cleared his throat. “Same time?”

 

“Half an hour later, if you don't mind. I'd like to get started on dinner before you arrive.”

 

After the call, Will tapped the phone against his lips, gaze wandering over the snoozing dogs. Hannibal hadn't dropped any hints that he wanted Will to stay after dinner, and the dogs were a convenient excuse to go home early in the morning if he did.

 

The question was, did he want to?

 

*

 

Dinner on Friday was seafood: scampi, octopus, scallops, artfully arranged on a bed of steamed vegetables, with white wine sauce. The table decoration matched: empty clam shells surrounded by tufts of dried sea grass, with sprigs of corral for masts and filigree mother-of-pearl sails.

 

Will wondered if Hannibal had shelves of table decoration stored somewhere, labelled by theme. The food was delicious. Hannibal sat at the head of the table, Will to his right. Their knees were touching. Conversation was light, banal in comparison to the usual topics; then again, you couldn't talk about death and murder _all_ the time.

 

He imagined having this regularly, every evening. He loved the silence of his home, the company of his dogs, the relative personal freedom that came from having no nearby neighbours eager to converse over the picket fence; he didn't like being _lonely._ Will had been on his own for a very long time out of necessity. Even prior to his incarceration and trial, the whispers that he was so good at catching serial killers because he was _just like them_ had followed him ever since his stint in Homicide.

 

With Hannibal, there would be no need for self-imposed exiles, no need to worry about saying the wrong thing, about empathizing with the wrong person. Hannibal wouldn't mind if Will closed the door between them sometimes, when he needed time and space for himself.

 

What a pair they would make.

 

For dessert, Hannibal brought out plates of soft, fluffy cake topped with fresh fruit.

 

After dessert, Will snagged him by the tie and pulled him closer, over the corner of the table.

 

Somehow, they made it to the second floor without tripping over each other's feet. “I don't know what the hell I'm doing,” Will confessed, between kisses. He pulled Hannibal's shirt tails free, sliding his hands under in search of skin.

 

Hannibal was kissing the pulse point under his ear, palming Will through his trousers. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

 

He bit and licked Will's nipples until they ached with over-stimulation, sucked on the thin skin over Will's collar bones, stuck his tongue into Will's navel. Will felt gluttonous and lazy, lying there on the wide bed, too wrapped up in his reactions to reciprocate. The weirdness of feeling another man's genitals nestled against his own faded swiftly.

 

Hannibal sat up on his haunches, tugging Will's ass into his lap. He leaned over to the night stand and returned with a glass jar filled with something translucent and gelatinous. Will's stomach did a somersault. He didn't know how he felt about letting Hannibal fuck him; one of his girlfriends had fingered him once, and he hadn't liked it very much.

 

Hannibal scooped out a handful of the slick, lifted one of Will's legs over his shoulder, and aligned their cocks, taking them into his wet hand.

 

The first liquid, sensuous slide scattered Will's concerns to the four winds. He grabbed a handful of blanket, another handful of pillow, arching with the onslaught of pleasure. The second slide was more forceful, the push of Hannibal's thighs against his backside inching him up on the bed. He braced himself against the headboard with one hand, wrapped his free leg around Hannibal's middle.

 

Hannibal leaned forward, his weight coming down on the leg he had over his shoulder. He splayed his free hand along Will's jaw, thumb pressing against Will's lower lip. Sweat glistened in the hair on his chest, on the tops of his shoulders, at his temples. Gone was the considerate host, the understanding therapist. On Will's next moan, he slipped his thumb inside, teeth flashing between his lips in a feral grin when Will bit down reflexively.

 

It was messy, and hot, and wonderful. Will came first, gasping for breath around Hannibal's thumb, under Hannibal's weight pressing him into the mattress, riding out his orgasm while Hannibal still strained against him, less coordinated now that he was nearing the end. Reaching up, Will clasped a hand on the back of Hannibal's neck, fingers sliding through sweat, and sucked on his finger.

 

That did it. Hannibal's release was much quieter, but no less powerful. Heat shot into Will's cheeks at the sensation of stripes of warm wetness landing on his belly and ribs. It wasn't embarrassment, not really; over the years of working for law enforcement, Will had much, much worse on him than semen. He'd gone from feeling guiltily relieved at not having to touch Hannibal to _wanting_ to make him come.

 

Hips stuttering to a stop, Hannibal sat up just enough to lower Will's bent leg to the mattress, wiping his wet hand carelessly against the blanket. His usual fastidiousness seemed to have fallen by the wayside in favour of a far more primal behavioural mode; Will couldn't call what followed anything but _wallowing_ in the evidence of their activity, as Hannibal plastered himself on top of him, replacing his thumb with lazy, indulgent kisses.

 

“We'll be glued together in the morning,” Will commented.

 

Hannibal tucked his nose under Will's jaw. “Good.”

 

*

 

Agitated voices woke him. The bed was empty again, but Hannibal couldn't have been gone long; the sheets were still warm. Was Hannibal watching TV in another room? Will rubbed at his face, discovering in the process he was aching all over – the good, post-coital kind of sore. He woke up a little more, reluctantly disappointed that Hannibal wasn't there for him to wake up _to_.

 

Then he recognized the voices, and was suddenly wide awake.

 

Jack. That was Jack's voice. And Hannibal's.

 

They were arguing.

 

Will sat up. Listened. Too far away to make out what they were arguing about, but just the tone of Jack's voice told him it was serious. Swiftly, Will got out of bed, grabbing his pants from the floor and pulling them on. Unless it was over a case, Jack had no good reason to be here at – quick glance at the clock on the night stand – half past six in the morning, on a Saturday. Hannibal was no FBI employee and thus not beholden to the odd hours they tended to keep.

 

Will eased the door open and crept into the hallway.

 

“– want me to think? You were the only one outside this case aware that we were considering Tier for the doer.” That was Jack, trying very hard to keep his voice down and not succeeding. “You practically gave me his name, and now Tier's head is mounted on top of a skeleton in the Museum of Natural History!”

 

“You can't honestly think I had something to do with that.” Hannibal: calm, composed, but icy.

 

“I don't know what to think!”

 

“Keep your voice down, please. I have company.”

 

Will was on the stairs now. Frowning, he digested the overheard information. Tier's head mounted on a skeleton, in a museum? Will had dabbled with the idea of sending _some_ sort of proof to the FBI that Mr. Bone Suit wasn't going to be a problem any longer, but hadn't yet decided. Hannibal had offered to keep the body available to him until he did.

 

“I'm sorry, Hannibal. I know we've done this before, but unless you produce an alibi for last night...”

 

“I'm afraid I can't –”

 

Will rounded the corner at the bottom of the staircase. Hannibal stood with his back to him, barefoot, black house coat cinched around his waist. Jack, on the other hand, had the full view of Will making an entrance, and with each step Will took further toward them, Jack's jaw sagged more.

 

“ _I_ can,” Will said. “I was with Hannibal all night.”

 

*

 

TBC

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I totally stole the scene from "Futamono".


	9. 9.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight shorter chapter than the previous two. I'm kind of anal about where/how I want my chapters to end, so if I fall a few hundred words short in terms of chapter _length_ , so be it. Thanks to everyone who's commented and read, so far! You guys are lovely.

**9.**

 

It was impossible for Jack to draw an incorrect conclusion from Will's appearance. Will was in his underpants, hair sticking up in weird places, dried and crusted ejaculate on his chest and belly. Everything about him screamed 'just had sex a few hours ago!', and he was even sporting a few mild bruises, where Hannibal had sucked on his skin, particularly on his chest.

 

Hannibal turned to him, radiating a mix of appreciation and worry Will could tell was an act. At least the worry, was. “Let me deal with this.”

 

“No.” Will stopped at Hannibal's side. He wanted to cross his arms, to cover himself – exhibition wasn't high on his list of preferred activities, no matter in what form – but didn't, letting Jack stare. “This concerns me, too. Doesn't it?”

 

Jack got his jaw back under control, though his gaze was still roaming over Will's form erratically, as though he couldn't believe his eyes. He looked liked he was searching for evidence that what he saw wasn't true – injection punctures, signs of alien possession, of drug abuse. Will imagined Jack had to be experiencing his own, twisted version of the Twilight Zone right now.

 

“What,” Jack said flatly, “the hell.” Shock made him rude. He pointed between Will and Hannibal. “You're having sex with him now?”

 

Will did cross his arms, then. “Yes.”

 

“ _Why?_ ”

 

“Really, Jack.” Hannibal dripped reproachfulness. “Have some courtesy. That is _private_.”

 

“Like hell it is. Two months ago, he sent a killer after you!” Jack seemed to be on the verge of losing it completely. “And you!” He glared at Will. “What the hell is _wrong_ with you?”

 

Two months ago, Will would have asked that question himself. If anyone had told him two months ago that he'd end up in bed with Hannibal Lecter, he would have recommended them for a psych evaluation, or the firing squad. Even just the idea of having something like a civil conversation with Hannibal, outside of the confines of the Baltimore State Hospital, would have struck him as unbearably absurd and insulting.

 

Two months ago wasn't now.

 

“Nothing is wrong with me. I told you Hannibal and I had some issues that still needed resolving. Well,” Will moved a couple of inches to the side, so his arm touched Hannibal's, hammering the point home, “we resolved them.”

 

“Thankfully,” Hannibal added.

 

Jack's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Close again. Now he looked like he was about to have a stroke, making Will worry they'd have to call an ambulance and explain to the FBI why the agent-in-charge of the Behavioural Analysis Unit had passed out on the marble floor of Hannibal Lecter's residence.

 

As morbidly humorous as the thought was, Will didn't feel like laughing. This was the moment he'd been hoping to avoid since choosing his plan of action after his release from the BSHCI.

 

He was about to make an enemy of Jack Crawford. He was, literally, about to pick a side.

 

Jack was here, suspecting Hannibal to be involved in the display of Randall Tier's head at the Museum of Natural History. It wasn't an entirely unfounded suspicion, from Jack's point of view. Will could easily see how he'd arrived at the conclusion. Under different circumstances, he would have done the same.

 

Hannibal had spoon-fed information about Randall Tier to the FBI, and mounting Tier's head on a skeleton at a place dedicated to portraying _natural history_ was something the Chesapeake Ripper would have done - something Will might have done – artful, elegant, deliciously ironic, considering Tier's proclivities.

 

Jack believed Frederick Chilton had been the Chesapeake Ripper. His belief was shaken now, upset. Otherwise, he wouldn't be here. With Chilton dead and off the list of possible suspects, Jack was turning to the _other_ suspect that had been on that list, before Miriam Lass literally blew away any doubts about Hannibal's innocence.

 

Hannibal wasn't innocent, defied the very definition of that word with his entire existence, but in this particular instance, he was blameless. Will didn't know _how_ part of Tier had ended up at its alleged current location, but he knew for certain Hannibal couldn't have possibly done that, unless he had really drugged Will somehow, after last night's sex, and then slipped out.

 

Will knew he hadn't. He knew it with ironclad certainty.

 

Hannibal would move heaven and earth, to cement Will's trust in him. To betray him now, especially in _that_ way, would be akin to detonating an atomic bomb under the fragile construction of mutual understanding that was just beginning to grow between them.

 

Jack was here to accuse Hannibal of a crime. Will was giving Hannibal an alibi.

 

It would completely and utterly ruin whatever professional and personal bond yet remained between Jack and Will. After this, there would be no going back. Not for Will. Not for Hannibal. This could not be undone again without destroying both of them in the process.

 

Calmly, Will slipped his hand into Hannibal's. “I suggest you get an official search warrant, Jack, if you really believe there's anything to be found here. Like I said: I was with him all night. Zeller or Price are welcome to scrape some evidence for that right off me.”

 

Jack stared. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked off. The front door opened and shut with a soft click.

 

*

 

Baltimore PD and the FBI forensics team arrived an hour later, with an official search warrant.

 

So did Hannibal's lawyer, Samuel Lynch.

 

Lynch came from one of Baltimore's oldest and most prestigious law firms, greeting Hannibal with a firm handshake and Will with open but friendly curiosity. His accent gave him away as a Louisiana native, that soft, mellow drawl Will remembered from his childhood. He had salt-and-pepper hair, and didn't so much as twitch an eyebrow at Will's state of undress or the blatantly obvious way Hannibal hovered over him.

 

His aide, an icy blonde in a black pencil skirt that probably cost more than Will's entire wardrobe combined, began to take notes before introductions were even over.

 

“I believe a call to the Inspector General's office is in order,” Lynch commented, observing the chaos of Baltimore PD officers and white-clad forensics team members swarming through the foyer. “This is unbelievable. Kade Prurnell will be _very_ interested in this. I've never seen such a blatant trampling of personal rights, and they don't even have a shred of evidence against you. It's wild speculation, nothing more.”

 

“Don't be too hard on them, Samuel.” Hannibal appeared both put-upon and accepting of the invasion of his home. “I _would_ make the ideal suspect.”

 

Jack stood in a corner, glowering.

 

Zeller approached Will with a handful of cotton swaps and evidence bags. “Er.”

 

Will spread his arms. “Feel free.”

 

*

 

At 10:30 PM, the chaos was abruptly over. As the forensics team were particularly scrutinizing the kitchen, thus leaving it inaccessible, Hannibal had ordered breakfast from a _delicatessen_ a few blocks away. Will sat in one of the comfortable armchairs in the downstairs study, wrapped up in a warm blanket, his feet tucked under himself.

 

He caught a flash of red through the open doorway, accompanied by the staccato clicking of high heels on marble. Hannibal, who had been reading the morning's newspaper in the next armchair over, rose and wandered out into the hallway.

 

Will sipped his coffee. He was only peripherally aware of the comings and goings, letting the noise and the incessant murmur of conversation wash over him. He was more tired than upset, and he was more upset at the breach of privacy and the invasion of Hannibal's home than he was at Jack. Jack was doing what he had to do.

 

Will wanted them all to leave, so he could think in peace.

 

He had a lot to think about. The pieces of a three-dimensional puzzle were rotating before his inner eyes, slowly drifting together in some places, breaking apart and forming a new picture in others. It was a slow process. Will didn't hurry it along, content to let the puzzle solve itself.

 

Kade Prurnell stalked into the study, dogged by Jack, Samuel Lynch, and Hannibal. She stared at Will, assessing, cold. “Mr. Graham.”

 

“Good morning.”

 

She said nothing else. Politely, Will waited for her to pick up the conversation. When she didn't, he shrugged inwardly and sank back into his puzzle. He was almost done.

 

Prurnell stalked back out. The noise dimmed. Finally, it disappeared entirely, the clap of the front door announcing the end of the chaos. Samuel Lynch's voice drifted through the open doorway, terms like 'lawsuit' and 'slander' and 'witch hunt' bouncing against the meandering thread of Will's thoughts without taking root.

 

Then that was gone, too.

 

Hannibal was still in his black house coat, when he sat down in the armchair next to Will's.

 

The last piece of the puzzle slid seamlessly into place.

 

Will rolled his head against the plush upholstery, attention fixing on the man next to him. Hannibal had the look of a man extraordinarily pleased with himself. The smugness would have set Will's teeth on edge, before; now he understood it. How empowering a feeling that could be, to stand in the focus of the FBI, accused, and to _slip away_.

 

Will smiled at him. Hannibal smiled back.

 

“Where is Abigail?” Will asked. “Where are you hiding her?”

 

Hannibal ducked his head. “Figured that out, did you?” His smile took on a more cautious note. “You're angry.”

 

Statement, not question. “I am livid.” He was. It was a slow, burning kind of anger, the one that could easily turn into resentment, if he let it grow. “I want to punch you in the face. I want to _skin_ you.”

 

“I wanted to surprise you. I was waiting for the right moment.”

 

Will extended a foot and poked him in the knee with his toes. “Still want to punch you.” He let Hannibal catch his foot. “You kept her rather busy, didn't you? Pretending to be Freddie Lounds, at the border. Sneaking into the museum with Tier's head. Was that her idea, or yours?”

 

Hannibal pulled Will's foot into his lap. “Hers. I told you she has an aptitude for the psychological. Abigail was very interested in Randall's case.”

 

Connecting to Abigail the way a father would – the way Will _thought_ a father would – had happened out of the blue. Undoubtedly, digging that deeply into Garret Jacob Hobbs' psyche had something to do with it; usually, it was the victim latching on to their saviour, and rarely the other way around. The only thing Will had saved Abigail from was dying at the hands of her father; by shooting Hobbs, he'd orphaned her at the same time.

 

Everything that came after was Hannibal's doing. The legal guardianship. Keeping Abigail's secrets – that she _had_ been an accessory to the abductions and murders her father committed, that she _had_ killed Nicholas Boyle. Hannibal had done everything possible to bind Abigail to them both. In hindsight, Will could easily see it as yet another means of binding _him._

 

“You let me think I killed her. You cut off her _ear_ and shoved it down my throat.” Even now, Will's stomach heaved at the memory, his throat constricting from the phantom sensation of thick plastic being forced into him. For weeks, until he started to unravel the webs Hannibal spun around him, he had lived with crippling guilt: the knowledge that he hadn't killed Abigail made meaningless by the certainty that she was dead at Hannibal's hands, _because_ she had meant something to Will.

 

Hannibal offered no apologies or explanations. He held Will's foot like you'd hold something precious, stroking over the fine bones at the top.

 

“I want to see her.”

 

“You will. Tonight. For now, she needs to keep to the shadows, until the time is right.”

 

The FBI believed Abigail Hobbs was dead. Will wondered what she was now – entirely Hannibal's creation, tied by secrecy and dependency, or something else. Hannibal could break people. He'd demonstrated that aptly enough with Will, until Will started fighting back.

 

He could remake them, too, nudging them in directions he thought worth exploring. In so many ways, Hannibal was without conscience, a curious observer of human nature, aware of, even understanding, taboo and morality but disconnected from the concepts at the same time.

 

And yet... _I wanted to surprise you. I was waiting for the right moment._

 

So disarmingly human.

 

Abigail was _alive._ Hannibal had not killed her. He'd kept her alive _for_ Will.

 

Hannibal was observing him closely. “Still want to punch me?”

 

Joy was spreading through Will, warm and honey-gold. Abigail was alive. His anger couldn't hold fort in the face of that knowledge. “No.”

 

*

 

“What about your dogs?” Hannibal asked. “Don't you have to go look after them?”

 

They'd put on clothes. The FBI had gone through every room – every room they had found, Will reminded himself – and left something of a mess in their search for evidence tying Hannibal to Randall Tier's death. They'd pulled books from the shelves and emptied out closets, rolled up carpets, dusted sculptures and door handles for prints. They'd even taken some of Hannibal's suits and pairs of shoes.

 

Will was a bit at a loss as for what to occupy himself with. This wasn't how he'd expected to spend the day. His upbringing demanded he help Hannibal clean up, but he felt he'd leave even more of a mess if he did. Most of his brain space was filled with thoughts of Abigail, when he wasn't mildly worrying about the lengths Jack would go to, to prove Hannibal had something to do with Tier. He ended up sitting on a kitchen counter while Hannibal sorted through a mind-blowing collection of spice racks, wiping each little glass container down with a wet cloth.

 

“Trying to get rid of me so you can sort in peace?”

 

Hannibal stepped between Will's knees, catching his lips in a kiss. “Never.”

 

Will felt hot under the collar when they parted. He'd gone without physical contact of that sort for so long, the slightest bit of attention seemed enough to make him want to drag Hannibal off to the bedroom. Or down to the floor. He wasn't very particular about the _location_.

 

“They're cared for. I have a neighbour who checks on them for me.” Will closed his legs, trapping Hannibal between his thighs. “You do realize Jack is going to scrutinize every inch of our lives from here on out? He might not be able to tie Tier's death to either of us, but that doesn't mean he'll stop looking.”

 

“I am aware of that. Jack wouldn't be Jack if he stopped.”

 

Will recalled his late-night conversation with Margot Verger. Recalled his thoughts – how many people were there, with whom Hannibal had been or still _was_ playing his little game of 'nurture the psychopath'? If Jack started really digging, how many Randall Tiers would he find, in the patient history of Hannibal Lecter?

 

“Margot Verger came to see me, the night when Freddie shot you.”

 

Hannibal pursed his lips. “She did? May I inquire into the reasons?”

 

“Came for a character reference, as she called it. She also told me that she tried to kill her brother, and that you told her to 'try, try again'.”

 

“If you knew Margot's history and the abuse she suffered at the hands of her brother, you would tell her the same.” Hannibal didn't appear to be bothered that Margot had divulged that part of their patient-doctor interaction to an outsider. “Any sane person would. Mason Verger is...a problem.”

 

“Be that as it may, you might want to tread a little more carefully in the future. Jack is going to look into your patients, I can almost guarantee that.”

 

Hannibal smirked. “Are you looking out for me, Will?”

 

Floored, Will realized he was. Abigail was alive. He was beginning to envision a future for them. For all three of them. He couldn't abandon Abigail again. He knew he would never be able to let go of Hannibal, not any more; they were bound by mutual bloodshed and secrecy. Maybe more. The friendly affection he'd felt for the man, before his incarceration and trial, was solidifying into genuine care, and it had nothing to do with the sexual attraction Will couldn't, didn't want to deny. Shaken, he averted his gaze and nodded, speechless in the wake of this silent, important revelation.

 

Hannibal pulled him to the edge of the counter, enfolding him in an embrace. He ran a hand through Will's hair, his palm coming to rest on the pulse point in Will's throat, warm, possessive and protective. “You truly are remarkable,” he said.

 

*

 

Abigail arrived when it was dark. She came in through the patio door, with her own key, kicking snow off her boots before she stepped inside, her cheeks ruddy from the cold. She looked different – the red curls allowing her to fake Freddie Lounds' appearance at the Mexican border had most likely been a wig, but her own, dark hair was shorter now, framing her face in a stylish bob.

 

The physical changes were superficial, compared to the difference in her behaviour. The vulnerability was gone, the hunched shoulders, the _victim_. She held herself straight, tall – she'd be taller than Will one day, maybe even taller than Hannibal – and proud, no longer daddy's scared little girl. Will saw it all at once.

 

“Will,” Abigail said, smiling brightly, _happily_ , when she saw him. She pulled off her pair of woollen mittens, stuffing them into the pockets of her oversized jacket, unwound the long shawl, and threw herself into his arms.

 

Hannibal picked up the shawl. He left them alone.

 

For a long time, Will wasn't capable of forming words. Whether borrowed from her dead father or grown within himself, the paternal love he felt for Abigail reduced him to holding her in his arms as tightly as he could. He had missed her so much, felt so much guilt over her death. Now, she wasn't dead. Now, she was alive, breathing, _here_.

 

They sat on the couch. Abigail took off her jacket. She wore a thick, woollen, hooded sweater, over a pair of jeans and solid, sturdy boots. The scar on her neck stood out vividly, but she made no move to cover it up. Will carefully brushed her hair back, revealing an even larger, uglier scar where her ear used to be, and felt crushing guilt again.

 

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

 

“Don't be. I feel better now. Free.” Abigail leaned against him. “It took me a while to understand that I was making a victim out of myself. Please don't pick up where I left off.” She hugged him, taking the sting out of her words. “I don't hate you. I never hated you. I don't hate _him_ , either. Hannibal, I mean.”

 

Whatever Hannibal had done to her, he'd done it thoroughly. Fear and guilt were gone. Will couldn't tell if it was an elaborate form of psychic driving, or if Hannibal had simply done the same to her he'd done to Will: found the darkness inside, and coaxed it forth, giving it room and opportunity to prosper. Abigail would grow up to be tall and beautiful and terrifying.

 

Will couldn't find it within himself to find fault with that. He _saw_ the trap – the hannibalesque version of a family, proffered on a silver platter – and what role Abigail played, the role Hannibal had grooming her for since meeting her. Perhaps she saw it, too.

 

It didn't matter. Will slung his arms around her, buried his nose in her hair, held her close. Abigail was alive, and he would _kill_ the next person who tried to take her away.

 

*

 

Abigail stayed for dinner. Hannibal had set her up in a small apartment about five miles from Chandler Square, where she would stay until they resolved how to proceed from here on out. Reintroducing Abigail Hobbs into society was no small undertaking. Legally, she was dead. Will had thrown up her ear, and the FBI, everyone, assumed the rest of Abigail's body lay buried in a shallow grave somewhere.

 

Will pondered if it wouldn't be better to leave everyone in that belief. Abigail was the daughter of Garret Jacob Hobbs, who'd carved his legacy into public awareness through the corpses of eight teenage girls he abducted and then cannibalized. Abigail would never be entirely free of that legacy, regardless of her own involvement in her father's crimes; whispers and suspicion would follow her all her life.

 

On the other hand, revealing her existence could go a long way to scattering the remaining doubts about Will's innocence, about Hannibal's, while hardening the case against Fredrick Chilton at the same time.

 

“I'd prefer to be alive,” Abigail said, lingering over cream and fruit. “It would be nice to be able to go out during the day, without having to worry that anyone recognizes me.”

 

“There will be questions,” Hannibal cautioned. “Are you prepared to stand trial in the eyes of the public? The FBI will want to know what happened to you, where you were, all these months. Why you are reappearing now.”

 

Abigail ate a spoonful of dessert. “Doctor Chilton abducted me, when Will took me to Minnesota. He cut off my ear. I escaped, and then I hid, afraid he'd finish what he started. But Chilton's dead now. I only heard it a few days ago. I don't have to be afraid any longer.” She looked from Hannibal to Will. “I am prepared. There is a place for me, in this world, and I'm prepared to take it.”

 

Oh, yes. She would be _terrifying_ , once she'd realized her full potential and grew into it. Will didn't know whether to be impressed or terrified himself, when he wasn't helplessly, inanely happy to have her back.

 

*

 

“What did you _do_ to her?”

 

Midnight. Abigail had left the way she came, through the patio door. Standing at the window of the bedroom, Will could see her footprints in the snow. He was worried – five miles was a long way to walk, in the middle of the night, in this weather, and Baltimore's crime rates hadn't exactly been dropping over the last years – and convinced she'd be fine at the same time.

 

Hannibal tugged back the blankets, busying himself with fluffing the pillows. “Abigail was a victim of her father's. I showed her a way to take back what is hers.”

 

“By turning her into a fully-fledged killer?”

 

“She hasn't killed anyone. She was an accessory to murder, suffocated by an overbearing father who wouldn't let his little girl grow up and away from him. I will not even begin to speculate about Mrs. Hobbs' role in all of that, if she played any at all.”

 

“Nicholas Boyle would disagree with you, there. Abigail did kill him.”

 

“That was self-defence. At least, in the initial moment, it was.” Hannibal switched on the bedside lamp, shut the door, and made himself comfortable. “I explained to Abigail why I was doing what I was doing. I will not lie: she was reluctant to help me, at first. To let me help _her._ ”

 

And if she had refused to help Hannibal, he would have killed her. If Will had refused to see the light, so to speak, Hannibal would have killed her, too – would more than likely have killed _both_ of them. She was a lose end and potentially dangerous, knowing so much, especially now. Hannibal had connected with her _somehow_ , but it had more to do with the cannibalism that had been forced on her by her father, less with paternal urges. She didn't have the same meaning to Hannibal that she had to Will.

 

Will wasn't entirely sure what that meaning was. He only knew that Hannibal had kept Abigail alive because he knew she was important to Will, and that overruled any other contemplations. Maybe now that she'd revealed herself capable of being more than an accessory, capable of more than self-defence, Hannibal saw more in her than a useful tool.

 

“Come here,” Hannibal said, holding out a hand.

 

Will crawled into bed. He felt wrung out, inexplicably. Or not so inexplicably; he had gone through an emotional roller-coaster since his release from the BSHCI. Even now, he swung between extremes: happy over Abigail's return, worried about what Jack was going to do. How Alana was going to react, now that the cat was out of the bag. Even if Jack didn't say anything, half of Baltimore PD and the entire forensics team had seen Will walk around Hannibal's house this morning, dressed in nothing more than a pair of boxer shorts.

 

Will wasn't worried about his reputation. That had never been the best to begin with.

 

But revealing himself to be Hannibal's lover – strange word; it didn't really fit, they were something different, more than that – _would_ shift the focus of Jack's investigations to them _both_.

 

Hannibal leaned over him. “I can hear those gears in your mind grinding again.” He kissed Will's brow, his eyelids, the tip of his nose. “When this is over, when we've dealt with our current problems...how do you feel about a holiday? I would love to show you the old world, as you Americans sometimes call it. We both could use some time away from Baltimore.”

 

Will huffed out a laugh. It turned into a yawn. “I'll settle for not waking up at godawful o'clock, for now. Or,” he added, pointedly, “to an empty bed.”

 

“I'll see what I can do about that.” Hannibal slipped a hand under Will's t-shirt, caressing his side. “Tired?”

 

“Yes. No.” Will stretched. Wrung out and tired weren't the same thing. He could feel Hannibal's erection against his thigh. “Got something in mind?”

 

“I would like to take you.” Hannibal studied Will's expression. “If you are amenable.”

 

Will didn't know if he was. He was, however, confident that he wouldn't be able to lie here and just take it, if it didn't feel good. “I'll tell you when to stop.”

 

Hannibal opened him with careful patience and plenty of lube, tore open a condom package with his teeth. He worked his dick into Will inch by inch, kissing between his shoulder blades. The stretch and burn weren't painful, just distracting. It was the intimacy that got to Will, more than the unfamiliar build of pleasure from having his prostate stimulated and his dick ignored. Clumsily, uncoordinated with his face half-buried in the pillows, he reached back and grabbed Hannibal's hip, holding them together until Hannibal got the hint and lowered himself fully onto Will's back. He switched from slow, steady thrusts to an even slower grind, his breath hot on the back of Will's neck.

 

It wasn't an incredible, earth-shattering experience, but Will could see himself learning to crave it for the literal connection, the pulse, the sheer eroticism of feeling Hannibal inside, slick and hard and heavy. He shoved a hand between his body and the mattress, trying to reach his dick. There wasn't enough room move properly.

 

Hannibal rolled them onto their sides, arms locked tightly around Will. That was better. Even better with Hannibal's hand joining his, moving in delicious counterpoint to his rocking hips.

 

“Next time,” Will gasped, “I want to see your face.” He came all over their fingers, and _that_ was new, the way clenching around Hannibal's cock heightened the experience.

 

Hannibal fucked him through the aftershocks, mouth wide open against Will's shoulder as he climaxed.

 

*

 

Will did wake up to Hannibal in bed with him, in the morning. The bedroom was filled with dust particles floating through beams of sunlight, and the air still smelled of musk.

 

In sleep, Hannibal's expression was unguarded. It didn't change much about his overall appearance – Hannibal was one of those people who excelled at micro-expressions, making them hard to read and easily misinterpreted.

 

Will studied him.

 

 _This is it_ , he thought. _You don't love him_ yet _, but you will. You'll raise Abigail with him, what little raising there still needs to be done. If fate doesn't intervene, you'll grow old together. You'll be locked into each other so tightly, it will take a scalpel to separate you – all the little secrets you'll share, all the lies. He'll give you the world...and he'll kill you if you betray him. You have as much power to destroy him as he has to destroy you. Is that truly what you want?_

 

Hannibal snuffled, shifted. As if sensing he was being observed, he woke. In the morning light, his eyes were a vivid, clear brown, with hints of maroon. The pillow had left a crease on his cheek. Seeing Will watch him, he smiled, just a hint, in the corners of his mouth. “Good morning.”

 

 _Yes,_ Will thought, _I do_ , and smiled back.

 

*

 

TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M NOT DONE YET. There's still plot that needs to be dealt with. The overall tone of the story is supposed to be dark - *eyes the schmoop in this chapter and laughs nervously* - and there's darkness around the corner. Jack isn't done yet, either, and Mason Verger will make an appearance. Also, Alana. 
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> 1\. Hannibal's eyes in Red Dragon are described as "a shade of maroon reflecting the light in pinpoints of red". Mads Mikkelsen's eyes are brown...ish, depending on the lighting. I'd go so far as to call them amber. So, I compromised. 
> 
> 2\. In case you couldn't tell, I really like Abigail. I didn't much like how they kept her so victimized in the TV show, though. Also, Will's "instant paternal urges" toward her always struck me as coming a little out of the blue. So, I compromised again. Yes, the scene with her is rather short; there will be more of her in the following chapters. 
> 
> 3\. This chapter about exhausts the lovey-dovey stuff I'm capable of. In case I didn't manage to drive the point home successfully, Hannibal _has_ Will, hook, line and sinker.


	10. 10.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kind of got a little away from me in length, whoops.

**10.**

 

There was no ambush on Sunday, no calls, no Baltimore PD officers darkening Hannibal's doorstep. With patient clockwork precision, Hannibal had moved from room to room, putting things in order, while Will trailed behind, occasionally lending a hand. In the evening, after a sumptuous meal of honey-glazed duck, they retired to the downstairs study, Will to leaf through a couple of interesting books, Hannibal to sit at the harpsichord by the window, composing.

 

Going back to Wolf Trap on Monday morning felt like stepping into another world. Will half-expected to see his little farm house overrun by FBI agents, Jack looking for evidence, forensics teams digging up his backyard, searching for corpses that weren't there. Will laughed to himself. He'd worked for law enforcement most of his adult life: he knew how to get rid of evidence. If Jack really believed digging through Will's stuff would turn up anything useful, then he was truly losing his touch.

 

Someone had come to visit Will, though. He found Alana's car parked in his driveway, empty. He parked next to it and got out. Alana sat in the wicker chair on his porch, bundled up in a long coat. She looked at him with a neutral expression, assessing him calmly, the way she would a patient.

 

Will broke the silence first. “How long have you been waiting here?”

 

“Hannibal opens his office at eight, for the burn-outs who need a little pep-talk before they go into work. That's usually when _I_ left, too. I figured you'd turn up here around then. Mrs. McMillan says hello, by the way. You just missed her.”

 

Mrs. McMillan was Will's nearest neighbour, living on a farmstead nine miles away. She was usually the person Will asked to look after his dogs, when he had to leave for a few days. “I see.”

 

“Are you going to invite me in, or are we going to have this conversation out here?”

 

“I wasn't aware we still had anything to talk about.”

 

“For old time's sake, then,” Alana suggested, with an airiness to her voice Will instinctively knew was forced. “I hope we're not yet at a point where we can't stand the sight of each other. But if you prefer I leave, say the word and I'm gone.”

 

Will was tempted to do just that, annoyed at his eagerness to avoid this confrontation. He knew Alana wasn't going to make a scene, wasn't going to scream or cry or fling insults. She was, as always, in perfect control of herself. That was something he'd always admired about her – that calm sturdiness that seemed destined to weather any storm, that could also _be_ the gale force when required.

 

In retrospect, he wasn't at all sure if his crush on her hadn't been a yearning for the stability Alana represented, the hope that he'd soak some of that up by osmosis. They'd known each other for years. It was more than telling that the moment he'd decided to act on his feelings was the moment when everything in his life seemed on the verge of drifting apart.

 

And now, this. She _was_ hurt, he could read it in every line of her face; he would be hurt, too, had he been in her shoes. Hannibal hadn't brought Alana's name up over the weekend, or told Will when he had terminated their relationship, but going by her pointed remark about Hannibal's office hours and astute estimate of his arrival here, she knew.

 

Even if it didn't end in accusations or a screaming match, this wasn't a conversation Will was looking forward to.

 

But it had to be done. “Come in.” He owed her that much, at least.

 

The dogs lay well-fed and lazy by the fireplace, when he lead Alana into his house. Mrs. McMillan had a habit of spoiling them. Only Winston sprang up and approached, tail wagging. Will petted him, counted the others out of habit to make sure they were all there, and shrugged out of his jacket. Alana hung her coat up, ignoring the hand he held out for it.

 

In the kitchen, he switched on the coffee maker. Alana took a seat at the kitchen island, making no comment about the new appliances and furniture.

 

Will sat down opposite her, the width of clean-scrubbed counter between them a gulf.

 

“I'm not even going to pretend that I understand what's going through your head,” Alana began in a measured tone of voice. “Or that I'm not hurt and confused by certain recent _developments_. Hannibal at least had the courtesy to talk to me face to face. You didn't even call. You could have called. You could have told me.”

 

“And say what? 'Hey, I'm sorry, but I'm fucking your boyfriend'?”

 

She crinkled her nose at the vulgarity. “My ego can take a beating. That's not why I'm here.” She gestured between them. “I don't understand you, Will. I don't understand what's happening. Explain it to me.”

 

He couldn't tell which part she was talking about: Hannibal breaking up with her, Hannibal choosing Will over her, or Will performing what had to be, from Alana's point of view, an 180 degree turn in attitude toward Hannibal. Probably all of it.

 

He didn't want to talk about it, not out of a specific desire to hurt or annoy Alana, but in general. He'd heard that phrase so often – 'I don't understand it. Explain it to me' – during his time as a detective in Homicide: fellow detectives acting as though he pulled conclusions about crime scenes out of thin air, when it was _all there_ , in the evidence.

 

There was another consideration, too. He couldn't let Alana see the evidence, in this case, couldn't break it down for her without giving too much away. Having sex with Hannibal was only the tip of the iceberg; what tied them together now couldn't ever be revealed or explained to an outsider. It was _private_ , and of vital importance that it stayed that way.

 

“Nothing to explain. It just happened.”

 

“It just _happened_?” Alana stared at him. “No. It doesn't. Something like that doesn't just 'happen'. Not with your history. Especially not with yours. Will, you wanted to see Hannibal dead. You sent a killer after him. Are you trying to tell me all that doesn't matter now?”

 

Will stood and got himself a cup of coffee. She shook her head when he held up a second cup. If she could tell he was stalling, she didn't let on. Will stirred sugar into his coffee and returned to his seat. “I made a mistake.”

 

“Mistake? Are you listening to yourself?”

 

“Alana, what do you want me to say?”

 

“The _truth_.” She leaned toward him, and he could see it – the desperate need to understand, to make sense of a situation that had to be leaving Alana floundering, out of her depth. “Pretend I'm not part of this. Pretend I'm someone else. Explain it to me as you would explain it to a stranger. Make it make _sense_.”

 

“I _can't_.” Will spread his hands, signalling helplessness: a deception. He _could_ , but he wasn't going to. “Am I sleeping with Hannibal to get back at you, because you turned me down? No. Am I trying to make him think I'm his best friend now, so I can kill him when he least expects it? No.” He looked away from her. “I can't explain it.”

 

“Jack thinks Hannibal did something to you.” It was intentionally vague-worded, left open for interpretation.

 

“What, like drugs? Hypnosis? That's a little far-fetched, isn't it?”

 

“Is it?”

 

Will paused, brought up short. “Meaning?”

 

“We know Chilton used drugs in his therapy with Abel Gideon, and probably countless others. It is entirely possible Hannibal would do the same. He was a surgeon, he's a psychiatrist now. He has profound medical knowledge. He'd know all about dosages and where to get what he needs, no questions asked.” Alana took a deep breath, as if to brace herself. “Jack thinks Hannibal has something to do with the death of Randall Tier. I know you're familiar with the case.”

 

“Jack also thinks I killed Clark Ingram. Jack has been thinking a lot, lately – all over the place.” Will tested this sudden change of direction in their conversation, the detective in him sitting up and taking notice, alert. “Do _you_ think Hannibal did something?”

 

“You don't, any longer? You accused him of being the Chesapeake Ripper. You were adamant.”

 

“I got confused. Chilton was the Ripper.”

 

“I'm not so sure about that.”

 

 _Very_ interesting, that Alana was suddenly putting a lot more stock in accusations against Hannibal. Jack must have really gotten to her, or was there something else that had swayed her? She wasn't one to change sides so quickly; even after his admittance to the BSHCI, Alana had stood by Will, believing the murders he'd been accused of to be a result of his poor mental and physical condition, rather than the finally emerged characteristics of an intelligent psychopath. It wasn't until he recruited Matthew Brown that Alana began to believe there was a darker side in him.

 

He decided to dig. Whether she was aware of it or not, Alana was giving him insight into the current state of affairs at the BAU. Jack had nothing, or he'd have had Hannibal arrested already; there had to be _something,_ though, for Alana's loyalty to waver like that.

 

“A few weeks ago, you wanted to know if Hannibal is safe from me. Now you're making it sound as though I was right all along, in thinking he is the Ripper. That's quite a different tune you're singing.”

 

Alana's expression shuttered. “I'm allowed to change my mind.”

 

Will shrugged. “So am I. And I did.”

 

“That's not a change of mind. You went from crying murder to sleeping with Hannibal.”

 

“And you went from sleeping with Hannibal to crying murder. Your point? Where's your evidence?”

 

The dig at her personal involvement with Hannibal went ignored. “I'm not the one with the empathy disorder.”

 

Something in Will hardened into a tight ball of resentment. “That's all anyone ever sees in me. A walking empathy disorder. Poor, fragile _teacup_. And people still have the nerve to ask why I'm anti-social.”

 

“I didn't say that's all you are. I know that's not all you are. But you _reflect_. Are you sure you're not reflecting something Hannibal wants you to?”

 

Oh, he _was_ reflecting – on his own terms. Will had never felt more in tune with his 'gift' than he did now, had never seen past the veil more clearly. He knew exactly what Hannibal wanted from him, and what he was offering in return.

 

“I'm not drugged or hypnotized or under any other influence. Jack is seeing ghosts. Who is he going to accuse next? You? Me, again? He already made a mistake, letting them arrest me as the Copycat killer. There _never was_ a copycat. Now he's got the Inspector General breathing down his neck. He's so desperate to catch the Ripper, he's lashing out in all directions.”

 

“You're angry at him.”

 

Will snorted. “Obviously. Wouldn't you be angry, too? I know Jack's a good man, Alana. But I lost my job -”

 

“You resigned. There's a difference.”

 

“As if they'd ever hire me again. Let's stick to reality, shall we? The FBI branded me a serial killer. If the Chesapeake Ripper hadn't claimed his kills, I'd still be in that cell.” Will ground his jaw. His anger over his incarceration was still very real, though now focused on the FBI's role more than Hannibal's. “Jack did his own version of psychic driving with me, whether it was intentional or not. He pushed _so hard_ to reinstate me as a special investigator.”

 

“You're your own man, Will. You could have said no.” Alana reached across the kitchen island.

 

Will pulled away before she could touch his hand. “With my _empathy disorder_? With the way I _reflect_?”

 

Alana saw the fallacy in her argument, and tried to salvage. “I didn't mean -”

 

“You can't reduce me to a set of influences, and then arbitrarily choose when I should and shouldn't be able to resist them, depending on who you think I'm influenced _by_.” An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Will battled with himself, finally winning over the childish urge to _hurt_ her. “I'm sorry you got caught up in all of this. I made a mistake, thinking Hannibal is a killer. That's my explanation. That's all.”

 

“And you're rectifying that mistake by shacking up with the man you thought framed you for multiple murders.”

 

“I wouldn't call it rectifying a mistake. Or shacking up.”

 

“What would you call it?”

 

“Following an urge? My heart? I fell in love? Take your pick.”

 

“I'm not sure it's your heart. You opened a door inside you, and no one knows what came out. Least of all you. And Jack has nothing to do with _that._ ”

 

There was nothing left to salvage here. A small part of Will regretted seeing his relationship with Alana deteriorate that way, but he'd picked a side and he was ready to defend it. The bridge between them was already gone; Will would tear down its foundations too, if he had to.

 

“Jack went from suspecting I was the Copycat killer, to thinking Chilton was the Chesapeake Ripper, to thinking I have something to do with the disappearance of Ingram. I've never even laid eyes on the man.” Lie, of course, but it slipped easily over his lips. “And now Jack's pointing fingers at Hannibal. Maybe _I'm_ not the one in need of psychological counselling.”

 

The barb was aimed at Jack and Alana both. She was a psychology professor; she knew all about the workings of the human mind, and how susceptible it was to suggestion. The entire last part of their conversation had revolved around that. Alana took in the not-so-veiled hint at the existence of her _own_ susceptibility without comment.

 

Will finished his coffee. “I want to be alone now. Please leave.”

 

At the door, coat in hand, Alana turned to him. “Hannibal is _bad_ for you, Will.”

 

“I disagree. I think he's the best thing that ever happened to me.”

 

Alana left without another word. Will stood on the porch and watched until her car disappeared down the road. He'd been laying it on a bit thick there, especially that last bit; he was quietly amazed at himself for some of the things he'd said over the course of their short, doomed conversation. It wasn't like him, to be so stand-offish, least off all to people he considered friends.

 

Alana wasn't a friend any longer. If she was suspecting Hannibal was guilty – either as the Chesapeake Ripper or in the case of Randall Tier – then she was an enemy.

 

Just like Jack.

 

*

 

Will took a nap, sleeping the rest of the morning and part of the noon away, feeling no less tired and worn when he woke. He puttered through a few household chores without much interest, tempted to laze the rest of the day away on the couch. Or someplace else, entirely.

 

A holiday, yes, that was what he needed. Some place where it was warm, where he could relax. Far away from Jack, Alana, and the FBI.

 

*

 

In the afternoon, a long, black limousine came up the street. Mood still soured from Alana's visit, Will watched its approach with a jaundiced eye, seriously considering investing in a fence around his property, ten feet tall and electrified, barbed wire.

 

His once so secluded home wasn't all that secluded any longer; first Jack, then Margot, then Alana. They all just came driving up, invading his privacy, his peace.

 

The man who got out of the limousine and stepped onto the porch was a stranger. His coat said 'money'. The way he knocked said 'subservient position', used to using soft gestures to gain an employer's attention. Will eyed him through the screen door, noting the bulge under the man's coat that said 'armed'.

 

The man made an inviting gesture at the limousine. “My employer would like a word with you, Mr. Graham.”

 

“And your employer is?”

 

“Mason Verger, sir. Please, it will only take a few minutes of your time.”

 

Margot's brother. Will couldn't think of any reason why the head of the Verger family would want to speak with him. Driven by curiosity, something telling him to tread carefully, Will followed the other man, apparently Mason Verger's chauffeur, out to the limousine. Hannibal had hinted at cruelty between the Verger siblings; Margot had attempted to kill her brother. Will was automatically on guard.

 

The limo's tinted window rolled down. Mason Verger looked younger than Will, early thirties. He had a baby-face with arresting blue eyes under a wild mop of blond hair. A pair of thin glasses perched on his nose. Will did a double-take; yes, that _was_ a brown piglet, sitting on Mason Verger's lap, wrapped in a white fleece blanket, and not a particularly pudgy miniature dog.

 

Mason extended a white-gloved hand for Will to shake, but didn't make any motions to get out of the car. “Mr. Graham. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He looked Will up and down. “You're shorter than your picture suggests. But then, those tabloid rags never do us justice, do they?”

 

Will ignored the question. He had the inexplicable urge to wash his hands, despite the thin layer of leather between his skin and Mason's. There was something _off_ about Mason Verger, something wrong. Sometimes, you walked into a situation and could tell it was bad without anything concrete to put a finger on. Warning flags were going up internally before he even let go of Mason's hand.

 

Mason squinted at him. “Not one for talking much, are you?”

 

“Just trying to figure out what you want from me,” Will replied. In his peripheral vision, he saw the chauffeur standing at the front of the limousine, arms casually folded, and took note of the man's position: politely out of earshot, close enough to become a problem, if this wasn't just a friendly visit. “It's a long way from Muskrat Farm to Wolf Trap.”

 

“You know about our little house?”

 

'Little' was an understatement. The Verger's private estate and surrounding acres of land were a small country unto their own. “Who doesn't? The Vergers are a household name in this area.”

 

The flattery put a wide smile on Mason's face. “Are you interested in pigs, Mr. Graham?”

 

Will almost had it. He knew he was looking at a monster, from Hannibal's insinuations about violence, to Margot's confession to attempted murder, to his own, queasy gut-feeling. He just didn't know yet _what_ kind of monster Mason Verger was, or what he wanted from Will. “Dogs are more my thing.”

 

“Loyal, protective, fuzzy. I can see the attraction.” Mason nodded vigorously. “I adopted a pair of dogs once, from the shelter. Poor things.”

 

He trailed off so suggestively, Will knew there was a story behind that kindness, with an ending he wouldn't like. He also knew Mason wanted him to ask. So he didn't.

 

Mason's lips twisted with amusement. “Now, the reason I came all the way out here is quite simple. You know my sister, yes? Margot Verger.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Mason smiled again, tongue-tip in the corner of his mouth. “What does she want from you?” He looked from the tips of Will's shoes up to his hair. “You're not _normal_ , for her. Wrong parts. You have an outie, where she prefers an innie. Not,” he quickly added, with a theatrically apologetic expression, “that you're not attractive. Please don't think I'm insulting you. No offence, Mr. Graham. You're _very_ attractive, if you get my meaning.”

 

Hannibal aside, Will had been hit on by men before. It had never bothered him – attraction was attraction, simple, human desire – beyond the awkwardness of declining the advances, which had more to do with his lack of social graces than being upset by the interest.

 

Mason Verger _bothered_ him. It went far beyond the proverbial 'dislike at first sight'. Verger was a predator. Something had gone wrong with him, was wrong with him. He was interested in Will, in the way a butcher was interested in a pig: looking for the best place to cut to get the most meat. He preyed on others, the way he must have preyed on Margot if it had gone so far to prompt her to attempt murder.

 

Will wanted, didn't want to know the specifics. He felt the siren's call of a depraved mind waiting to be discovered, and it was _so_ hard to resist. So hard not to imagine what it would be like, taking Mason down a notch or three. Make him a pig.

 

“If you're interested,” Mason offered suggestively, “we could...compare parts. I like to compare parts. Nothing wrong with a little comparison, is there?”

 

The flat, clumsy advance could be an indication of Mason's emotional maturity, or an indication of something much worse. That was something a child would say, or something an adult would say _to_ a child. Will suppressed a shudder, the mental image he'd already formed of Mason Verger taking on a decidedly disturbing tinge. “Taken, sorry.”

 

“All the good ones are.” Mason was all business again, though now a little sullen. “Now, about Margot...?”

 

“Your sister and I have the same therapist.”

 

“Doctor Lecter. Fine man.”

 

“...yes.” Will went from wanting to wash his hands to wanting to take a bath. Most of all, he wanted Verger off his property, out of his sight. It was always that much worse when children were involved, and Mason was _all_ about children, he was sure of it. “Margot came for a character reference, patient to patient. That's all she wanted from me, and that's all I gave her.”

 

“Really.”

 

“Really. Wrong parts, remember? We didn't _compare_ our....innies and outies.”

 

Mason nodded slowly. “I'm worried about my sister, you see. Such a headstrong, young woman. Prone to get into trouble. I look out for her, as much as she lets me. I hope you're not thinking I'm trying to control her, or anything.”

 

 _That's exactly what you're doing_. _That's why you're here. You want to control every last moment of her life._ “Why would I think that?” Will forced a smile.

 

Mason grinned. “No reason at all. Now, I won't take up any more of your time. Oh! I nearly forgot. Here.” He lifted the piglet off his lap, holding it out through the window. Immediately, the small thing started shivering from the cold. “Consider it a gift. You said you like dogs, Mr. Graham. You should give pigs a try. Marvellous creatures. Did you know you can train them to do lots of things?”

 

Will's knowledge about pigs was as limited as his waning patience. He didn't want it, but if accepting the gift meant Verger would finally leave, he'd pretend. He grabbed the piglet, tucking it under his arm. “Thank you.” Mrs. McMillan owned a few pigs, she'd be able to look after one more. “Have a nice day, Mr. Verger.”

 

The tinted window was already rolling back up. “You too, Mr. Graham. You too.”

 

*

 

Will called Mrs. McMillan. An hour later, her rusty, old pick-up rumbled up the street, and Will's household was once more pig-free. He took a long, hot shower, scrubbing what felt like an inch of _wrong, wrong, wrong_ off his skin. Accepting his own darkness had made him no less sensitive to knowing where to look for it in others. Everything about Mason Verger felt oily, corrupted and sick.

 

He wasn't Will's problem, though. More than that, he wasn't Clark Ingram, mediocre social worker, or Randall Tier, outcast and problem child, or even Freddie Lounds, tabloid journalist. The disappearance of one of the top members of the Verger family, not to forget one of the top employers in the meatpacking industry, would incite a media frenzy.

 

 _Don't think about it. Jack's already got you under a magnifying glass. As soon as he learns that Margot is Hannibal's patient, he'll be all over this_.

 

He thought about it, though, at length: so much that in the evening, restless and for once not interested in tying lures or reading, Will drove into Wolf Trap and visited an internet café. He didn't find much on Mason Verger, just a few archived articles that mentioned him along with his father, when they'd made appearances at animal fairs, attended church conventions. Tame stuff. The last article dated back to 2004, showing Mason at Verger senior's funeral.

 

Will was certain there was a record. Something sealed, kept from the press, or _suppressed_ legally. It was a gut feeling he couldn't get rid of, and combined with his impression of Mason and the information he'd gleaned from their short, peculiar conversation, Will knew that whatever Mason had done was bad.

 

He wished he still had access to the FBI search engines and data archives. Then he'd know what it was that Margot had called 'private carnage'.

 

He didn't have that kind of access now, and no one he could ask to do some snooping for him.

 

Will returned home, and tried to put the entire thing out of his mind.

 

*

 

Wednesday evening, Abigail stood on the porch. She wore a wig, blond this time, and heavy make-up that made her look ten years older than she was. Will nearly didn't recognize her, until she took off the baseball cap that rounded up her outfit.

 

Exasperated, happy, Will opened the door for her. “Please tell me you didn't hike here.”

 

She held up a set of car keys and pointed at a tiny, snub-nosed car parked next to Will's. Theatrically, she gripped him by the shoulders, miming being on her last breath. “Feed me. I'm starving. I was stuck in traffic just outside Wolf Trap for over an hour. The roads out here are murder, in this weather.”

 

Will ushered her inside. He was as happy to see her as he was worried that someone had seen her. “You should have called ahead. I could have picked you up somewhere.”

 

“I like driving by myself. I never got to do that much, in Minnesota. My dad was always afraid I'd end up in a ditch somewhere.” Curiously, Abigail looked around, her hands held out for the dogs to sniff and lick. She pointed at Buster, whose fur had only just started to grow back over the healed, pink skin on his upper back. “What happened to him? Looks like something tried to take a bite out of him.”

 

“You mounted the head of the man who did that to him on a skeleton at the Museum of Natural History.”

 

Abigail glanced at him shyly from under her eyelashes. “Did you like it?”

 

Will hadn't actually seen the result of her work, but he could envision it. “I appreciated the irony. Does Hannibal know you're here?”

 

She nodded, taking off the wig and rolling it carefully up in the baseball cap. “We were supposed to have dinner tonight, but something got in the way.”

 

“'Something'?”

 

“A patient, I believe. He called me from the office and suggested I keep you company, instead. I didn't feel like take-out pizza, so: here I am.”

 

Will made a mental note to talk to Hannibal about forensic countermeasures. All too easily, he could imagine Jack attaining a warrant to tap Hannibal's phones. Then he told himself he was being too paranoid.

 

“Well,” Will said, making an inviting gesture toward the kitchen, “I can feed you, but I'm no chef. If you're expecting a five-course gourmet meal, you'll be disappointed. I don't cook much for myself. I have eggs, cheese, potatoes and bacon.”

 

“Sounds like a stir-fry to me.” Abigail rolled up her sleeves, smiling. “I'll peel the potatoes.”

 

Will found two cans of mushrooms in his pantry, and added a few onions to the potatoes. It felt weird, standing opposite Abigail at the kitchen island, mixing eggs, milk and spices into batter. Weird, and right. He knew she wasn't his daughter. He knew he loved her all the same. Really, Hannibal couldn't have given him a better gift.

 

“I want to go back to school,” Abigail confided, quartering the potatoes. “I want to get an education, and a job. I want to be able to provide for myself.”

 

“Nobody says you can't.” Will drained the mushrooms over the sink. He caught Abigail glancing at him. “Do they?”

 

“No. And it's weird. When Hannibal told me what he was going to do, I thought he was going to try to replace my dad. But he's not, isn't he? He's just giving me what I need, making sure I'm provided for.”

 

Will caught the questions she _hadn't_ asked. Perhaps the reason she'd braved the icy roads and the possibility of discovery wasn't just a home-cooked meal and company; she wasn't _just_ a tool any longer. It was only natural that she would question motif and intent. He set the drained mushrooms aside and leaned on the counter, ordering his thoughts.

 

“I'm not your father, Abigail. I love you, but not like your father did.” He picked his words carefully. “I have a very specific reason not to _want_ to love you like your father did. Do you want to hear it?”

 

Abigail put the knife down. She'd gone still, staring at him with wide eyes. It wasn't fear. It was eagerness. Will wondered if anyone had ever bothered to sit Abigail down and explain to her _why_ Garret Jacob Hobbs killed and ate all those girls, why he turned their hair into pillow-stuffing. He knew she'd gone to group therapy, but not long enough, and no one understood Hobbs the way Will did.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Your father was _in_ love with you.”

 

Abigail swallowed. “Like...like he wanted to...?”

 

Will caught her meaning immediately. “No. It wasn't sexual. You were starting to emancipate yourself, applied to schools, started thinking about moving out, going to college. He couldn't stand the thought of losing you. He killed and ate those girls, who looked so much like you, because it was his way of making them _his_ forever. He did to them what he couldn't do to you, _because_ he loved you so much. Even making you participate in his crimes was just another attempt to tie you to him. He tried to kill you because it was his last option to prevent anyone from taking you away from him.”

 

For a long moment, Abigail was silent. “And you?”

 

Will sighed. This wasn't easy for her, but it wasn't easy for him, either. “I would...” He trailed off, tried again. “I _will_ kill the next person trying to take you away from me, but not because I want to tie you down, or to me. It's enough for me to know that you're alive and happy.” He braced himself for the next bit. “I'm very aware that everything that happened to you _after_ Minnesota was my fault. Please don't think I'm ignoring or forgetting that.”

 

Abigail came over to his side of the kitchen. She looked a bit more like her old self, shier, self-contained. She wrapped her arms around Will's middle and hugged him. When she stepped away, her eyes were wet, and she brushed at them with her sleeve.

 

“Sorry.” She laughed a little. “It's just...thank you. For being honest.”

 

“I wouldn't lie to you, not even to protect you.” Will looked away from her. “You're alive _now_ because Hannibal knows I care for you.”

 

“I know. He told me. That's...actually one of the first things he said to me, in Minnesota. That he was keeping me alive for you. Because of you.”

 

“Doesn't that bother you?”

 

“A little. I used to think he likes me.”

 

“He does like you.” Will groped for words. “Just...”

 

“Not enough?” Abigail suggested.

 

“Differently.”

 

“He cares because you care.”

 

Still not the entire truth, but Will decided to settle for that. He was impressed by how much Hannibal must have told Abigail in general, about his plans, about his intentions; more impressed that she was going along with it. She was a survivor, but not without losing sight of her own interests and well-being. Hannibal had given her a choice, and then made sure she was settled in her new reality. That was more than her own father had ever done.

 

Will reminded himself that a choice between death and what Abigail was now, what she had the potential to be, wasn't really a choice, especially not for a teenage girl. Still, Abigail appeared to be happy. She was _aware_.

 

And alive.

 

*

 

Abigail conquered Will's guest bedroom for the night. While she slept, Will snuck a peek at her wallet, finding a driver's license in the name of 'Jennifer Fillmore', a library card, twenty dollars in cash, a ticket stub from a Baltimore movie theatre. He couldn't get rid of the worry that Abigail could be pulled over, if driving longer distances by herself was turning into a hobby of hers. The fake credentials would probably hold up to a routine police check, but nothing more.

 

 _If_ Abigail was pulled over, or was taken to into police custody for whatever reason, Will wanted to be the one they called to bail her out. It was his duty, and his privilege.

 

Revealing Abigail Hobbs' continuing existence was the best course of action they had, really. Hannibal was one of her legal guardians, Will the other; it was time Will took a closer look at that paperwork Hannibal had mentioned, off-handed, as a mere side note, weeks before Will's incarceration.

 

*

 

Thursday morning, Abigail drove back to Baltimore. She kissed Will's cheek after making sure the wig was in place, laughing at his expression. 'Jennifer Fillmore' looked _wrong_ on her.

 

“I want to adopt you.” Will bit his tongue. He'd spent all morning composing the words in his mind, and now they'd come out flat, hurried. Abigail stood frozen before him, one arm in her jacket. “If you want. Only if you want. It would make things easier for you. Legally.”

 

Abigail smiled cautiously. “I'd like that.” Her smile widened. “I'd really like that.”

 

*

 

Thursday afternoon, Hannibal called. “I'm afraid I must ask you for a favour, if you have the time. Could you come to the Saint Francis Hospital?”

 

Will sat surrounded by parts of yet another boat motor. “Why are you in a hospital? What's wrong?”

 

“I'm fine, it's not me who needs medical attention. I'm with a patient. Normally I would not ask this, but I cannot leave her side, and I need my day planner and address book from the office. I need to cancel tomorrow's appointments.”

 

The vice around Will's ribs eased. He took a slow, deep breath. “I'll be there. Give me an hour.”

 

“Don't rush, please. Margot and I aren't going anywhere.”

 

“Margot? Margot Verger?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Will measured out enough food for the dogs to last them through the night, and called Mrs. McMillan just in case. His thoughts were circling on the drive to Baltimore. Just yesterday, he'd been visited by Mason Verger, and now Margot was in a hospital? That couldn't be a coincidence.

 

Saint Francis was a small, private clinic tailored to the rich and important, located in a turn of the century estate surrounded by a meticulously kept park. They had a wrought-iron entrance gate and a gravel driveway, marble floors, glossy wood furniture in the entrance area. Hannibal stood by the reception desk when Will walked in, sans suit jacket, chatting with a woman in a white doctor's coat.

 

Will approached them. “Hello.”

 

Hannibal wrapped an arm around Will's shoulders, pulling him in, and kissed him. “There you are.”

 

Will felt a little self-conscious over the public display of affection, and shot the doctor a glance. She was around his age, pretty, with just a hint of make-up and meticulously arranged waves of long, honey-blond hair. The collar of a silk blouse peeked out under the white coat, along with an expensive-looking pearl collier. Likely one of the people Hannibal invited to his dinner parties.

 

She watched the interaction between them with slightly raised eyebrows, her expression showing vivid interest. “I'll talk to you later, Hannibal.”

 

“Thank you, Sarah.”

 

First name basis. Will waited until she was out of earshot. “Did you just display me?”

 

“A little. I'm afraid we'll be public knowledge, come the weekend. Doctor Faulkner has been trying to set me up with several of her many socialite friends for years.” Hannibal's expression screamed smugness. He gave Will's hip a squeeze. “They'll insist on meeting you.”

 

Will groaned inwardly. He could think of better ways to spend his time than being paraded around Hannibal's upper crust friends. Better to change topics, now, before Hannibal started planning his next dinner party. “Why is Margot here?”

 

“She was in a car accident. There were complications. She asked me to stay.”

 

There was something Hannibal wasn't saying, probably due to the receptionists and the other patients and visitors in the lobby. One of the receptionists especially seemed to gravitate closer and closer to them, under the pretence of arranging office utensils, the longer they stood here. Will lowered his voice. “Her brother visited me on Tuesday.”

 

Hannibal's mirth faded. His eyes took on a cold gleam, sharp like razors. “Mason? He came to see _you_?”

 

“Yes. Give me the keys to your office. I'll tell you later. Let me get your stuff, first.”

 

The early evening rush hour lengthened the trip from Saint Francis to Bayshore Avenue and back. Will stopped at a food market on the return drive. Depending on what state Margot was in – he didn't like the sound of 'complications', at all – Hannibal would likely stay the night at Saint Francis.

 

Margot's room at the hospital was on the second floor. Doctor Faulkner stepped out just as Will was about to knock. “Hello again.” Purposely, she blocked the way. “I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name earlier.”

 

“Will Graham.”

 

Faulkner's smile slipped a fraction. “Aren't you the man who -”

 

If Baltimore's upper crust were going to gabble about him, they might as well do it for the right reasons. “- didn't kill all those people, yes. Do you mind?”

 

She stepped out of the way, looking perplexed, scandalized. Tremendously curious. Will shut the door in her face. Hannibal, sitting on a chair by a large panorama window, tutted. “Manners, Will.”

 

Will wasn't interested in manners. Clinical environments in general gave him the creeps. Way too many bad associations, what with his former occupation and the many, many hours he'd spent in the company of corpses. The room was far more elegant than the one he'd stayed in at Johns Hopkins, more like an expensive hotel suite, but the massive, white hospital bed surrounded by monitoring equipment and IV stands was a harsh reminder of where he was.

 

The bed's occupant appeared to be deeply asleep. The entire left side of Margot's face was swollen, the skin broken up by a dozen small lacerations. Her arms and neck were covered with bruises. If there was more damage, it was hidden under the sheet covering her from the clavicles down.

 

Will crossed the room and deposited Hannibal's day planner, address book, and the plastic bag with his purchases from the food market on the window sill. He felt queasy. Margot wasn't a friend of his, was barely more than an acquaintance, but seeing her lying there felt wrong. Everything that had to do with the Verger family felt _wrong_.

 

He caught Hannibal watching him. “What?”

 

“You brought me food.”

 

“Yeah, well, you made me chicken soup, once upon a time.”

 

“You're agitated. Please, sit down.”

 

 _Calm down._ Will sat in the nearest free chair. “Okay. What's going on?”

 

“Margot has had a hysterectomy. It was performed shortly after the accident.” Hannibal folded one leg over the other. “What did Mason want from you?”

 

Will stared at the blood and urinal drains trailing from under the sheet. “He came to ask if Margot and I had compared parts.” Hannibal raised an eyebrow. “He wanted to know if we're fucking. Then he hit on me.” Hannibal's other eyebrow went up, while the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees. “And then he gave me a piglet. As a gift.” In hindsight, Mason's visit had been nothing but surreal. “The car accident wasn't the cause of the hysterectomy, was it?”

 

“No. Margot was a pregnant. It wasn't just a hysterectomy. The surgery performed on her was also an abortion. And quite against her wishes, I imagine.”

 

“What?”

 

“Margot wished to have a child. An heir. Someone more eligible than her to inherit the Verger business and fortune.”

 

Will remembered something Margot had told him when she visited him in Wolf Trap. _Well, my brother is the heir, not me. I have the wrong parts, and the wrong proclivity for parts._

 

He also recalled a snatch of information from his internet search on Mason Verger. Verger senior had been a deeply religious man, known for generous donations to various church organisations.

 

The picture forming in his mind was more than ugly. “Let me guess. Daddy Verger disinherited her because she's a lesbian.”

 

Hannibal nodded. “If Mason dies, the family fortune will be distributed among a number of Christian organisations specified in Verger senior's will. Margot would be left with nothing. She wants to avoid that.”

 

“She tried to kill Mason. Doesn't that defeat the purpose?”

 

“Attempting to kill Mason was an unplanned, spur-of-the-moment reaction. An act of rage, following something Margot witnessed that day. In my therapy with her, I have been trying to help her find ways to beat him without resorting to manslaughter.”

 

Facts lined themselves up like toy soldiers. “ _You_ planted the idea of a child in her mind.”

 

“I suggested it, as a possible means to circumnavigate the unfair specifications of her father's will, yes.” Hannibal looked at Margot's still form on the bed. “I did not expect her to act on that suggestion so quickly. Nor did I expect the lengths Mason is willing to go to, to thwart her.”

 

 _Thwart_ her? Upset, Will rose and paced. Mason Verger had submitted his sister to invasive medical procedures against her will. Margot would never have children of her own, now, and the one she could have had had been taken from her. Will thought about Abigail, and how he'd feel if someone took her now – it wasn't the same, but it was, and _no one_ deserved that, no one.

 

“Will,” Hannibal said gently, “please, calm down. I didn't ask you to come here to upset you.”

 

Well, it was too late not to become upset. In Will's mind, Mason Verger had already died a thousand deaths. With an effort, he forced himself to return to his seat. “Who's the father?”

 

“I don't know. She told me she was pregnant during our last session, on Monday. I didn't ask her about the father, and she didn't tell.”

 

Monday. Mason Verger had appeared in Wolf Trap on Monday afternoon. Will fell silent. More facts; if Mason was willing to control his sister's life to the point where he had her submitted to operations without her consent, it wasn't too far-fetched to believe he'd try to locate possible candidates for the father of Margot's child and do away with them, just because.

 

Hannibal must have arrived at the same conclusion. Hence his killer expression in the lobby, earlier.

 

But how had Mason even known Margot was pregnant? With everything he did know, Will couldn't imagine Margot would reveal something like that to her brother. She had to have known that giving away a possible advantage would prompt Mason to react in _some_ way.

 

“I feel sick,” Will admitted. He did; his stomach was clenching with a mixture of anger and revulsion, laced with pity for Margot. “I don't even know her all that well. We spoke _twice_.”

 

“You're empathizing with her.”

 

“Aren't _you_?”

 

“Yes.” Hannibal nodded gravely. “Margot is my patient. She has suffered an even greater injustice than the ones her brother already forced upon her, and I feel partially responsible.”

 

Will glared at him. “Did you ask me to come here on purpose? So I'd go after Mason? I told you, I'm not your lab rat.”

 

“Will.” Hannibal took the accusation in stride. He leaned forward, taking Will's hand. “I asked you to come here because I really need that planner and address book. And because I wanted to see you. No games. No tests.”

 

Killing Mason now would rob Margot of ever inheriting the Verger fortune at all, which seemed important to her. Hannibal wouldn't care about that, but he knew Will would. Hannibal was likely more upset/annoyed that Mason had thwarted _him_ , by trumping Hannibal's suggestion of an heir with such a gruesome and final response: no uterus, no heirs.

 

Will deflated. “I think I should leave. Being here isn't...good for me.” Because right now, he was very close to ignoring all his previous contemplations about Mason Verger. Because right now, finding the man and putting a bullet in his head sounded like the best idea, ever.

 

“Do you want to go to my house? I'd like to stay here until Margot wakes, which shouldn't take more than a few hours, so I'd join you later.” Hannibal stroked Will's thumb.

 

Will didn't feel like driving back to Wolf Trap. He nodded, and pocketed the keys Hannibal held out to him. “See you in a few hours, then.”

 

At the door, he had an epiphany, followed by a suspicion. “I'm wondering how Mason knew Margot was pregnant. Who's Margot's gynaecologist?”

 

Hannibal inclined his head. “Doctor Faulkner.”

 

*

 

 


	11. 11.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** this chapter contains **references to child abuse**. I didn't go into specifics or descriptions, no names are named, it's all very 'hint and allude', but I thought I'd warn just in case. Mason Verger, in the book, was a pedophile. The TV show only hints at this - the scene with the boy in the barn and Margot's nebulous 'they've already forgiven him' etc. In case you want a brief synopsis of the book Mason Verger's depth of depravity, Wikipedia's article on him offers a nice, concise overview on why Mason should, like, really, really DIE. 
> 
> The article also sheds a little more light on Margot's role in Red Dragon, which the TV series completely ignored. I'd like to point out that Margot sleeping with Will and getting pregnant really doesn't make any sense, from a plot point of view. In the book, it was made plain that the Verger fortune would only go to _Mason's_ heirs after his death, which lead to that fun scene with Margot, and the eel, and Margot's domestic partner, Judy. In the TV series, it was heavily alluded that Mason wished to father a child with Margot. Why she thought sleeping with Will ( or anyone else, for that matter ) would prevent her brother from sexually molesting her again, is beyond me. I mean, she could have tried to pass the child off as Mason's, after killing Mason, but that would have opened this whole can of worms where she'd have to admit to having had sex with her own brother, in order to get her hands on the money. If Margot had a domestic partner in the TV series, getting _her_ pregnant with Mason's child ( via the eel method ) would at least give them the opportunity to pass said domestic partner off as Mason's girlfriend and thus the mother of Mason's heir. I hope they'll get around to that.

**11.**

 

Will was used to the solitude of his own four walls. It was different, being alone in Hannibal's house on Chandler Square, in the middle of Baltimore. Cities were never _quiet_ ; there was always something in the background: cars, people, the sonorous hum of electrical lines, the distant wail of an ambulance. Caught up in his emotions, heavily leaning toward anger, Will aimlessly moved from room to room, looking for something to distract himself with.

 

He noted an electronic number pad, newly installed on the patio door downstairs, small and discreet. The discovery made him grin with dark humour. The almighty predator had deigned to descend from on high, submitting to the common means of a burglar alarm to keep his den safe.

 

Will felt like a predator himself, pacing the floor, albeit a rather vulnerable one. He wasn't new to borrowed emotions in the wake of immersing himself in a crime scene. It came with the job description: _teacup, filled to the brim_. It was what made him good at what he did. Without seeing the emotional component, crime sites were reduced to scenes of meaningless slaughter, butchery without rhyme and reason.

 

Taking on the victim's point of view wasn't new, either, though he usually tried to avoid it. It was actually easier to tackle the mindsets of the most depraved killers on the planet than to put himself in the shoes of their victims.

 

Will was walking around in Margot's shoes right now – knew it, saw it, felt it – and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't take them off.

 

He hated every second of it. To be dehumanized like that. To have that small chance at happiness taken away. To be _cut_ into. To live the rest of his life with the knowledge that Mason had _won the game_ -

 

Will shook himself, literally. He stood in Hannibal's kitchen, unsure when or why his feet had carried him here. For the first time in weeks, his head was pounding with the onset of a headache, making him wish he'd kept on carrying his Aspirin bottles around.

 

He couldn't allow himself to sink too deeply into Margot's mindset. There would be no way out other than _through_ Mason Verger. Oh, he could see it – taking that smugness apart, bit by bloody bit. Finding out what made Mason tick, finding then wrongness in him and tearing it out. Making him _crawl_.

 

Doing bad things to bad people didn't just feel good, sometimes it was also _just_.

 

Mason Verger deserved every injustice in the world.

 

*

 

Hannibal returned from the hospital at 01 AM. Will heard him hang up his coat in the hallway, the clack of keys being set down, the soft tread of socked feet on carpet, then marble, then floorboards. The fridge door was opened, then shut again. Finally, Hannibal entered the living room, where Will lay curled up on the couch, in the company of a flickering fire and the hypnotic dance of snow flakes outside the windows.

 

Hannibal took a seat in an armchair, wine glass in hand. “Still awake, I see.”

 

“Couldn't sleep. How is Margot?”

 

“She is still under the influence of whatever anaesthetic they used on her during the operation, but considering the circumstances, lucid.” Hannibal lifted the wine glass to his nose. “She is aware of what was done to her, and understandably devastated, yet calm.”

 

Will heard 'accepting' and 'resigned', and tasted bitterness. He watched the wine in Hannibal's glass catch and reflect the glow of the fire, and thought about ending a life. Without the earlier emotional turmoil attached, he thought about lifting Mason Verger's beating heart out of his splayed-open ribcage and quartering it while the blood still pumped through the organ.

 

“Do you have any regrets?”

 

Hannibal considered the question. “With every action lies the possibility of regret. However, if I chose not to do something, it is usually for a good reason.”

 

“I am _riddled_ with regrets.” Most of all, Will regretted the lack of options he had, concerning Mason Verger. Will wanted him dead. He _wanted_ it. “And don't tell me to adapt my behaviour to avoid feeling the same. There's nothing to adapt _to_ , in this case.”

 

Hannibal smiled, amused. “I wasn't going to. I think we're well past the point where you need me to guide you through your own mind.”

 

“I don't need therapy. What I need is an alibi.” And an opportunity, and privacy, and a knife. Possibly a bone saw. Will rolled onto his back, feeling the phantom weight of a knife's heft in his hand, and hugged his arms to himself. He could imagine it so clearly, in gory detail. “I don't know what's wrong. I don't usually empathize with the _victim_. It feels so abnormal.”

 

“An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behaviour.” A clink of glass against glass, Hannibal setting the wine down. “Tell me, how _do_ you feel?”

 

Will frowned and cast him a dark look. “I just said I don't need therapy.”

 

“Humour me.”

 

Will was tempted to tell Hannibal to fuck off. He'd just managed to detach himself somewhat from the unwanted mile he'd walked in Margot's shoes, figuratively speaking, and no desire to retrace his steps. Immersing himself in what he wanted to do to Mason felt that much better. Annoyed, he tried to wrap up what he was feeling as succinctly as possible. “Powerless. Victimized. Angry.”

 

“All very normal reactions. Dangerous to one's mental health only if they begin to dominate us.”

 

“I'm not dominated by these feelings, I'm _swamped_ by them. There's a difference. Rape, ravage. Get my drift?”

 

“I do. Your new outlook on life hasn't taken away your capability to empathize, that's all I'm saying.”

 

Curiosity piqued, Will eyed him. “You sound as if you were expecting it to. Did I add a little chaos to your anticipated variables?”

 

“Please don't bring up the lab rat comparison again. You were never a lab rat, or a science project,” Hannibal said earnestly, with a hint of distaste. “You do yourself injustice, reducing your own person like that. The _sum_ of what you are is what draws me to you, not a single aspect separated from the rest. I love all of you, Will.”

 

“Are you even capable of love?”

 

Hannibal's lips twitched. “Are you going to analyse _me_ , now?”

 

“You called me remarkable, for doing it before. When we were at Johns Hopkins.”

 

“That I did. Because you are.”

 

“Flatterer.”

 

“Not flattery. Truth.” Hannibal folded his hands over his belly, indulgent. “Let me save you the time: I know what I am. I have all the markings of an intelligent psychopath, don't I? Cruelty, violence, a disregard for how my victims feel, or what their death will mean to those they leave behind. I am manipulative. At the same time, I have principles. Even morality, if I may be so bold to include that. My good qualities, however, do not necessarily imply that I am _not_ a psychopath, by conventional standards.”

 

Will chuckled. “I wish Jack was here. His head would explode.”

 

Hannibal shrugged lightly. “Self-awareness is the first step to self-realization. I do not deny what I am, to myself. I do not feel guilt or remorse over my actions,” he inclined his head at Will, “except in a very small number of cases. And when I do, I try to make up for my mistakes, because I honestly regret them.”

 

“Which is what throws you off the roster of Psychopaths 101.” Will sat up, folding his legs under himself. “Who was it, that you lost?”

 

Hannibal looked down at his folded hands. “My sister. Mischa. She taught me much about myself.”

 

“Was she older than you?”

 

“Younger. Much younger. She was a little girl, when she was taken from me. I was barely more than a child myself, when it happened.”

 

The mood in the room changed. Will had never seen Hannibal so pensive, on the verge of looking lost in memories. He felt like he should apologize, for bringing it up. How had they even gone from empathizing with Margot Verger to dead sisters?

 

Will couldn't help feeling sorry for the other man. Abigail had been returned to Will's world. Hannibal's sister was dead. 'Taken from me' indicated violent circumstances, and Will knew instinctively that Mischa's death had dictated everything that followed after in Hannibal's life, perhaps even now.

 

He'd had that thought before, at Johns Hopkins, but now, with Abigail's return and the happiness he experienced from that, he wondered what Hannibal would be like, if Mischa were still alive.

 

Wondered what it felt like, to lose a sister. He'd assumed Abigail lost, and it had devastated him, even after such a short time of knowing her. Would -

 

“Will,” Hannibal said, shaking him from his thoughts, “don't.”

 

Jarred, Will sought eye contact. “Don't, what?”

 

“Don't empathize with me. Not in this. Losing Mischa nearly destroyed me.”

 

Yet he'd let Will think he'd lost Abigail. And then, he'd returned her. Hannibal had given Will what he could never have back, himself. Perhaps therein lay the answer to Will's doubts regarding Hannibal's capacity for love.

 

“Change of subject,” Will declared, sinking back into the couch. “What happens to Margot now?”

 

“Physically, she'll heal. Luckily for her, whoever performed the hysterectomy knew what they were doing, although they did leave a rather long scar on her abdomen.”

 

Will knew that had been on purpose. A visible reminder of Margot's loss, physical evidence of Mason's victory. “And mentally?”

 

“She is a strong woman. She has to be, or she would have given up a long time ago.” Hannibal looked to the side. “It bothers me that Mason came to see you.”

 

Will huffed. “Worry about yourself. You were the one who suggested to her...” He looked past Hannibal, at the newly installed burglar alarm on the patio door. “Ah. I was wondering about that.”

 

Hannibal followed his gaze. “Even an old dog can learn a new trick.”

 

“Do you think Mason is going to try something?” Whether or not Mason had run into trouble with the law before, he still had enough power and influence to buy a surgeon to perform an operation on his sister, and enough confidence that he'd get away unscathed.

 

“He is not my patient. If he were, I might be able to predict his next moves, if there are going to be any at all. He might come after me. He might not.”

 

“Not knowing doesn't seem to bother you.” Will attempted to read Hannibal's non-expression. “Or is the not knowing that excites you?”

 

Hannibal mirrored Will's posture, relaxing into the armchair. “I've learned that acting rashly often leads to undesirable results. I am not unaware of the danger. Nor am I ignoring that any action taken against Mason now would only lead to yet another FBI presence in my home.”

 

“In other words, patience.”

 

Hannibal nodded. “I consider that the best course of action.”

 

For now, it was. Again, Will envisioned lifting Mason's beating heart out of its protective cradle of bones. One way or another, he swore to himself, he would see that pig bleed.

 

*

 

They drove to Saint Francis, Friday afternoon. It was raining again, with the barest hint of warmth in the air: spring was making its first, feeble attempts to overtake winter. Margot was awake, her face turned toward the window, when they walked in.

 

Will kept himself in the background while Hannibal and Margot talked, though he could tell she was curious about his presence. He was tired. He'd slept fitfully, waking several times to fragmented snatches of dreams, and each time Hannibal had curled himself around Will's back, coaxing him back to sleep.

 

Now all Will wanted was to crawl back into bed to sleep the rest of the day away.

 

Hannibal excused himself to the rest room. For long minutes, the room was cast into silence. Then Margot beckoned Will closer. The lacerations on her face were scabbing and the bruises were beginning to darken. “Why are you here with him?”

 

“We resolved our carnage.”

 

A shadow crossed her face. “Lucky you.” With painstaking slowness, Margot shifted to her side. “There's no resolve to this.”

 

The quiet tone of defeat was hard to ignore. It irked Will. Empathy wasn't the same as sympathy, but pity came easily, along with a hefty dose of anger. “Is the money _that_ important to you?”

 

Margot didn't even ask how he knew about that. “It's all I have, now. Or don't have. He won.”

 

“Show your brother how strong you are. Survive him.” It was the best advice Will could give her, even as it sounded lame, not enough. He sat down in the chair Hannibal had vacated. “How did he even know?”

 

“Doctor Faulkner, I assume. She doesn't know Mason very well, not the way I know him, but she was a friend of my father's.” Margot shifted again, hissing with pain. “He might have had an inkling and called her. He said – he said I had this _bloom._ And my options were always limited by the specifications of my father's will.”

 

An urge to be the bearer of good news, friendly relations with the rest of the family, a little ignorance when it came to keeping the doctor-patient confidentiality, or maybe Doctor Faulkner had simply been bought. “You could press charges.”

 

“To what end? I don't know where Mason took me, after the accident. Everyone was wearing surgical masks. The only face I really saw was his.”

 

“What about the accident itself?”

 

“There won't be a scrap of evidence left. You don't understand how thorough my brother can be.”

 

Thorough enough to visit possible candidates for being the father of Margot's unborn child. The more Will thought about it, the more he was convinced that he'd skipped death by an inch, the afternoon Mason appeared in Wolf Trap. “Maybe I do.” He hesitated. “What about the father?”

 

“Some guy at a club. _Several_ guys, at several clubs. I didn't ask names, and they didn't ask about birth control. I don't think they even knew who I am. We went to a hotel. I didn't stay for breakfast.” She smiled mirthlessly. “My proclivities haven't changed.”

 

Margot really had nothing in hand. Will rubbed at his temples. “What exactly was your plan?”

 

She gave him a long look. “I'm not sure I want to talk about this. You're not my therapist. Anything I tell you can be used against me in court.”

 

“I'm here with Hannibal. I'm _with_ Hannibal.”

 

Margot's eyebrows went up. “In what way?”

 

“In every way. And in case that doesn't convince you, I am giving serious thought to cutting your brother's heart out with a blunt knife and making him watch while I quarter it.”

 

Will's estimation of her was right; Margot didn't even blink. She hadn't gone to the police in the wake of Hannibal's therapy sessions, or revealed his rather unorthodox recommendation in regards to her relationship with Mason, either. Will suspected that a lifetime of surviving her brother had left her with rather fluid morals. In her own way, she was just as damaged as Mason, just _differently_.

 

Margot watched him calmly. “I don't need a knight in shining armour, Mr. Graham.”

 

“It has, admittedly, less to do with you than with my own experience with Mason. Your brother came to my house, to inquire if you and I had 'compared parts'.”

 

She snorted, then winced. “Did he hit on you?”

 

“Yes.” Will cocked his head. “Though I suspect I am a little too old to meet his usual criteria. Am I right?”

 

Margot's expression hardened. “About thirty years too old. That's why I tried to kill him. There were always rumours, you know. I think my entire family knows. And they all look away. I did, too. I thought he was just being cruel to me. Until I saw – in the stables – we sometimes get these visitor groups, from schools, orphanages – I don't want to talk about it.”

 

Will didn't want to hear specifics. His active imagination had already provided them.

 

“Don't kill him.” Margot slipped a hand to the edge of the mattress, reaching for Will's. “It's not _just_ about the money. It's about winning the game.”

 

“It's not a game, Margot.”

 

“It is, to my brother.” She squeezed Will's hand, winced again, and slowly shifted onto her back. She looked exhausted, and in pain.

 

A soft knock sounded at the door. Hannibal stepped back into the room. He took one look at Margot and another at Will. “We should leave. I think Miss Verger needs her rest now.”

 

Margot squeezed Will's hand again, then let go. “Thank you. Both of you. It's nice to know there are people who understand.”

 

Will was silent on the ride back to Chandler Square. Hannibal pulled the Bentley into the garage attached to his house and used a remote control to shut the garage door. Overhead lights switched on automatically. “Can you stay the weekend? I'd like the company.”

 

“I'm not sure I'll be _good_ company. This whole thing with the Vergers is putting me on edge.”

 

“I told you, Will, I love all of you. Bad moods included.” Hannibal brushed his knuckles against the line of Will's jaw. “Stay.”

 

Will sighed. “I'll call my neighbour, then. I think I just want to sleep, though. My head's killing me. Do you have any Aspirin?”

 

“I might have something better. Something a little more natural than manufactured chemicals.”

 

*

 

Will wasn't really in the mood for sex, until Hannibal pushed him against the wall just inside the door and shoved a thigh between his, grinding their hips together. “Endorphins,” he explained, mouth hot and wet against Will's throat, “are natural painkillers. I'm sure you know this.”

 

“You want to fuck my headache away? Really?” Will missed sarcasm by a mile; hard to hit the right tone, when all of his attention was rapidly moving south. He shoved the coat off Hannibal's shoulders, fiddled impatiently with the Windsor knot of Hannibal's tie. “You have _got_ to start wearing fewer layers.”

 

“Appearance,” Hannibal sounded impossibly prim, eyes glittering, lips wet, “is half the impression.”

 

Will hooked a foot behind Hannibal's ankle, twisted, and pushed. With a loud _thwump!_ they hit the oriental carpet of the entrance hallway, Will on top, knees spread over the bulge at Hannibal's crotch. Hannibal stared up at him, mouth open.

 

Will splayed a hand over Hannibal's throat, thumb over the pulse point, and grinned. “I was a cop. I've taken down people twice your weight and two heads taller than me. Don't look so surprised.” He hooked two fingers behind the Windsor knot and yanked until the tie came off. Buttons went flying in all directions as he proceeded with Hannibal's shirt.

 

Hannibal bucked his hips up, nearly unseating him. “That shirt cost 300 dollars.”

 

“Send me the bill.” Will spread his thighs wider for better balance, and sent the last buttons careening off the walls as he ripped the shirt all the way open. “Or tell me to stop.”

 

He didn't know where the sudden aggressiveness came from, and wasn't inclined to question it. Roughly carding his fingers through the greying hair on Hannibal's chest, he lowered his mouth over a nipple, testing his teeth against the dark peak. Hannibal hissed, then gripped Will's head and guided it to the other side.

 

Unless there was a secret stash of lube somewhere within arm's reach, this was going to be rough and gritty. The idea suited Will's current mindset just fine. Leaving a trail of suck marks down the centre of Hannibal's chest and belly, he fought with Hannibal's belt, button and zip, until he had him in hand, blood-warm and wet at the tip.

 

Will scooted down. “I'm not going to be good at this,” he warned, and took Hannibal's cock into his mouth. He wasn't even going to try emulating what Hannibal had done to him, just wrapped his hand around the base and concentrated on keeping his teeth away from the thin skin. Hannibal let lose a burst of noise. Out of the corners of his eyes, Will saw Hannibal's hand, flat against the carpet, clenching into a fist. Then it rose, brushing the curls away from Will's brow.

 

“Look at me,” Hannibal demanded, cupping Will's jaw. He was a picture of debauchery – shirt ripped open, fly undone, cheeks flushed. Their eyes locked, and Will felt the intimate connection flare up inside, spurring him on, filling him with pride. He was doing this. He was the one reducing prim, proper Hannibal Lecter to short gasps and moans, _undone_.

 

Hannibal came with a rough cry, an aborted jerk of hips. He tasted bitter on Will's tongue, salty. The feeling of triumph overrode Will's gut reaction of wanting to spit, and half a moment after he swallowed, Hannibal was grasping him, one-handed, tugging him up. Hannibal's other hand cupped him through his pants, his mouth muffling his whine with a sloppy kiss.

 

“Do you want to,” Hannibal murmured, lips against Will's, thighs spreading, and god, yes, Will wanted, but not here, not like this, on the carpet in the hallway, without lube. He clenched his eyes and shook his head, rode Hannibal's hand, shoulders and arms burning from the effort of holding himself aloft above the other man, and came in his pants like a goddamn teenager.

 

He collapsed on top of Hannibal, spent, heart hammering, pinpricks of sweat between his shoulder blades, on the back of his neck. “That was -”

 

“Messy,” Hannibal said, deadpan, but Will got the feeling he was extraordinarily pleased.

 

With an effort, Will sat up. They _were_ a mess. He drew a face at the slick-squish drag of his boxer shorts over his spent dick and made a half-hearted attempt at tucking Hannibal back into his pants. They needed a shower, or a bath. Their clothes were done for. “I should pick up the habit of leaving some clothes in my car.”

 

“You could simply leave them here,” Hannibal offered, pillowing his head on an arm, “as well as in your car.”

 

He could, couldn't he, if spending the weekend at Hannibal's house was going to be a recurring event. Part of Will balked at the thought, at the implied steadfastness. He told himself he was being silly – mentally, emotionally, he'd already moved in with Hannibal, and leaving a few clothes here wasn't the same as setting up house together.

 

He allowed himself to imagine going even a step further – imagined setting up house together. It would eliminate the hour-long drive from Wolf Trap to Baltimore. If Hannibal didn't like the dogs, Will could find them good homes, or they could find a different compromise. It would be better than abandoning them for days at a time, and Mrs. McMillan wouldn't have to drive over every day to feed them and let them out into the backyard.

 

Something to think about, later. Much later. He patted Hannibal's belly. “You were right. My headache's gone. Though now I'm twice as tired.”

 

“The good kind of tired, I hope.” Hannibal sat up, winding an arm around Will's middle to steady them. “My schedule is cleared for the day. I'm going to visit Margot again tomorrow, but I have no other obligations. We could go out for dinner, tomorrow evening.”

 

“I definitely don't have the right clothes for the kind of places I think you frequent.” Not to mention that Will would feel ill at ease surrounded by Baltimore's rich and famous, with meals on the menu that cost more than he spent on food over an entire month, and three different sets of cutlery on the table. “I'd rather stay in. You could cook for me.”

 

Hannibal's eyes narrowed. “Getting a taste for my cooking, Will?”

 

Will hadn't even considered how Hannibal might take his suggestion. Protest dying on his lips, he searched for reservation, revulsion on his part, and found none. People consumed dead animals all the time. Meat was meat. With the ghost memory of the taste of Randall Tier's heart on his tongue, Will nodded.

 

*

 

They spent the rest of the day lazing about. Saturday morning after a late breakfast, Hannibal got ready to drive to Saint Francis. “Do you wish to accompany me?”

 

Seeing Margot again wasn't a top point on Will's wish list. He felt for the woman; at the same time, he couldn't quite get behind her reasoning for _not_ killing Mason. At a certain point, self-preservation overtook the importance of money. In Margot's stead, Will would have been way past that point already. This wasn't a game.

 

He also wanted to avoid loading himself up with _more_ ammunition against Mason, concerned that sooner or later, the urge to wipe Mason off the planet would overrule caution. “I'd rather not. I've done enough empathizing for the week.”

 

Hannibal dropped a kiss in Will's hair. “See you in three hours or so, then. Don't get bored.”

 

There was no danger of boredom. The books Hannibal kept at his office were only a fraction of the rather immense collection stored in various shelves all over the house, many of them beautifully preserved first editions, and a great deal of textbooks covering a diverse area of topics. Will enjoyed reading; it was something he hadn't got to do much, while running around catching killers for Jack.

 

He barely heard the front door shut, already immersed again in a thick volume on Egyptian mummification. An hour or so later, he got up to relieve himself, making a detour through the kitchen on his way back, for a snack.

 

He wasn't aware of the passage of time, until the phone rang. The clock on the mantle above the fireplace read half past three in the afternoon. Strange, that Hannibal wasn't back yet. Will answered the phone, expecting it to be Hannibal. “Lecter residence.”

 

“Mr. Graham?” It was Margot. “I'm sorry, but is Doctor Lecter there?”

 

Will set his book down. “He isn't with you?”

 

“No. He called me this morning, said he might be a few minutes late because of the traffic. Well, it's _very_ late now. I tried the office, but he isn't answering.”

 

Will stared at the clock. Hannibal had been gone for over four hours already. “Hang on a minute.”

 

Getting up, he walked into the hallway, fishing his cellphone out of his jacket pocket. No messages, no missed calls. It wasn't like Hannibal, to be late for anything, without letting the people who expected him know. If he'd run into trouble on the road, he would have called.

 

_If he is_ able _to call._

 

The thought sparked worry. Will glanced out the window. The street was free of ice, but that didn't mean Hannibal couldn't have gotten into an accident. Will had a brief vision of Hannibal bleeding out inside the wrecked Bentley, and clenched his eyes shut, refusing to let it take root.

 

“Mr. Graham? Hello? Are you still there?”

 

“Yes, sorry. Do you remember which number he called you from? Was it cellphone, or office?”

 

“His office number. That's the one I have. I looked his home number up on the internet.” Margot sounded apologetic. “I normally wouldn't call like this, on a weekend, but he's usually such a punctual person.”

 

She was worried. So was Will, now. “I'll call you back.” He hung up before Margot could get another word in, and called the office number. Five rings, and the answering machine picked up. Will ended the call and dialled Hannibal's cellphone number, getting the mailbox. He ended that call, too.

 

A minute later, he was stepping into his shoes, jacket over his arm.

 

Twenty minutes later, Will parked across the street from Hannibal's office on Bayshore Avenue, and breathed a sigh of relief. The Bentley was parked at the curb, indicating that there hadn't been an accident, at least. The entrance to the building wasn't locked.

 

The door to the office, was.

 

Will knocked. He put his ear against the door. He knocked again, harder.

 

Nothing.

 

Will hesitated for all of five seconds. _Here's to hoping he didn't have a burglar alarm installed here, too..._

 

He kicked the door in.

 

To the untrained eye, the office lay untouched and pristine. Hannibal's day planner and address book were back in their places on the wide desk, aligned to the edges with OCD precision. “Hannibal?” Will stepped further into the large room. “Hello? Hannibal, are you...”

 

Coppery smell in the air. Scuff marks on the floor. One of the leather armchairs stood askew. And there, past the desk, a sight that made Will's blood run cold: a large, uneven _sea_ of blood soaking into the floorboards, smeared wildly in drag marks that ended a few feet in front of the rear entrance door.

 

Will moved to check the second waiting room, finding it empty. So was the rest room. He returned to the desk, carefully avoiding to step into the blood, and caught a whiff of something else – sour and foul. Faeces. The body's muscled slackened at the moment of death, including the sphincter.

 

Whoever that blood belonged to, they had died here.

 

Hannibal was the painfully obvious candidate, but then, where was the body? With a numb, glacial calmness, Will slipped his cellphone out of his pocket and looked up the telephone number of Saint Francis Hospital. He called and asked to be put through to Margot Verger.

 

She picked up on the first ring. “Doctor Lecter?”

 

“No. It's Will Graham.” Will knelt at the edge of the blood puddle. “Where would Mason take him?”

 

Margot inhaled sharply. “You think -”

 

“I don't think. I _know_. Where would Mason take Hannibal?”

 

Silence. Then, a rustle of sheets and a faint, feminine grunt of pain. “Come pick me up.”

 

“I don't have time -”

 

“Muskrat Farm is vast,” Margot cut in. “You'll never find Mason without me.”

 

Will dipped a finger into the blood. Cold. Starting to coagulate. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

 

*

 

Margot stood at the curb outside the Saint Francis Hospital grounds, when Will pulled into the quiet street. A nurse and a harried-looking, elderly man in a doctor's coat stood with her. The doctor was gesticulating angrily, one hand on Margot's arm. As soon as Will stopped the car, Margot shook off the hold and opened the passenger door.

 

The doctor protested. “Miss Verger, I must insist -”

 

“I'm sorry. Family emergency.” She pulled the door shut and put on the seatbelt.

 

Will pulled back into the street. Margot looked ill and exhausted, colourless without her impeccable make-up except for the vivid bruises and scabbed cuts, hair lanky and straggly. A pair of hospital scrub pants peeked out from under her coat, and she kept one arm locked firmly over her midsection, under the seatbelt.

 

“I don't care about your money, or about your little game,” Will said, still with the same, cold calmness. He couldn't remember ever having been this calm before, in a situation that was anything but. “I hope you know what that means.”

 

Margot stared straight ahead. “I do.”

 

*

 

Muskrat Farm, the Verger family residence, lay in a national forest near the Susquehanna River in northern Maryland. It took them the better part of two hours to get there. The sky was beginning to darken by the time Will drove past a hand-painted, elaborate welcome sign. The road lead past a thick growth of trees and opened unexpectedly onto wide lawns lined with low fences. A handful of ponies stood huddled together under a red-roofed shelter, shaggy with winter fur.

 

The house, rising on a hill in the distance, was easily the largest private residence Will had ever seen. It was an odd building, a curious marriage of castle-like turrets and small towers over a squat foundation, recalling to memory something out of a fairytale, inviting visitors to gawk in wonder.

 

Margot directed him onto a cleverly hidden gravel road leading away from the lawns, into the thick of the forest. Will turned off the headlights.

 

“He'll have men with him,” Margot said. “Not bodyguards, but don't take them lightly. They're pig farmers from Sardinia. Mason does business with them.”

 

Will threw her a glance. Her expression was tight. “What aren't you telling me?”

 

“Mason is rearing a new breed of pig. He's, ah...training them. Pigs are omnivores, did you know that? They'll eat _anything._ ”

 

Common knowledge, but the way she said it made Will's hand clench on the steering wheel. That's why there hadn't been a body. If Hannibal hadn't died at the office – Will _refused_ to acknowledge the possibility, absolutely refused to believe Hannibal could be dead already – then he'd die here, under far more gruesome circumstances.

 

Hannibal would have, _would_ appreciate the irony. The Chesapeake Ripper, who killed in sounders of three, fed to pigs.

 

_There won't be a scrap of evidence left. You don't understand how thorough my brother can be._

 

They drove for another mile, until Margot said, “Slow down. The barn is just ahead.”

 

'Barn' was an understatement. It was a solid, large brick building, with an iron entrance. Two vehicles were parked outside: the same long, black limousine Will had seen already in Wolf Trap, and a sturdy Jeep with muddy tires. Will let the car roll to a stop, still under the cover of the trees.

 

Even here, fifty yards away and thick brick walls between, he could hear the agitated squealing of pigs.

 

“There is another entrance, on the left side. You can't see it from here.” Margot unbuckled her seat belt. Sweat was beading on her upper lip. She was even paler now than before. “Do you have a gun?”

 

“I don't need one,” Will said, and got out of the car.

 

*

 

TBC

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uhm, yeah. If there's anyone who really, really, really likes Mason Verger...you might wanna stop reading after this chapter. Just saying.


	12. 12.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains **graphic violence** and **more references to past paedophilia**.

**12.**

 

No gun, no plan, only certainty: Will _was_ going to find Hannibal, or what remained of him, and regardless of what he found inside the barn, Mason Verger was going to die. There was no other possible solution. The visit to Will's house, the wrongs Mason seemed to do everyone who crossed his path – Will might have let that slide, eventually. Might, if not forget, have convinced himself that killing Mason would only invite unwanted attention.

 

The moment he laid a finger on Hannibal, Mason had signed his own death sentence. Hannibal wasn't _his_. The same possessiveness that had reared its head after Will's release from the BSHCI now demanded its tribute in blood, albeit from a different source than originally intended.

 

Will swiftly jogged from the car to the barn. From up close, through the iron gate, the cacophony created by the pigs inside was deafening. The noise could work in Will's favour, obscuring his approach. He glanced back at the car, saw Margot standing next to it, behind the open door, and motioned for her to remain where she was.

 

Then he moved to the left side of the barn, rounding the corner. The ground was muddy, showing the depressions of boots and pig's hooves leading to another door halfway between him and the rear part of the building. Will's heart skipped a beat; a man stood there, back turned, leaned against the brick wall. Faint wisps of grey smoke curled in the air above his head.

 

Will had no other weapons than his hands, his police training, his anger, and a hundred murders in his mind where the hands of the killer had been enough to wreak havoc.

 

The man remained unaware of Will's approach until the last moment. Will grabbed him from behind, one hand to the back of the neck to steady the spine, the other cupping a bristled jaw and yanking the man's head around sharply. He felt more than heard the snap of bone, saw the cigarette tumble to the ground by heavy work boots, sizzling out. He guided the sagging body down.

 

A quick search through grimy pockets yielded a small blade, viciously curved like a hawk's talon, and a set of car keys. Will looked at the dead, empty eyes, feeling nothing but distaste.

 

_Amateur. At least face the way you're supposed to watch_.

 

Onward. The side door was only leaned shut. Will eased it open an inch, and the noise swelled even more. He caught sight of hay-strewn floor and the edge of a simple set of metal stairs leading up to a platform erected partially over a high-fenced pen. Through the gaps of the fence, he saw the shadows of the pigs, large and swarthy, saw their great bodies moving restlessly in the confines of the pen.

 

They saw _him_ , too, as he eased the door further open. A momentary lull in the noise froze Will on the spot as at least a dozen pairs of small, black eyes stared at him through the fence. These weren't complacent, fat swine bred for food. Aggression rolled off of the herd in waves, thick and threatening.

 

Will heard a familiar voice and forgot all about the pigs for the moment. He looked up.

 

“- say, Doctor Lecter, I'm disappointed. We could have had so much _fun_ , you and I.” Petulant, like a child who hadn't gotten his will, Mason stalked the length of the platform. Due to the angle, Will could only see Mason's head and part of his shoulders. “You forced my hand! I didn't want to mutilate my sister like that, but you just _had_ to plant that silly idea in her head, didn't you?”

 

The pigs lost interest in Will, too, and resumed their agitated prowling and grunting. Whatever Hannibal said in response to Mason's accusation was lost in the noise. Will didn't care. He was so relieved he felt light-headed. Hannibal was _alive_.

 

“Carlos. Carlos! No. Kill him and there will be no money!”

 

“ _Padrone_ , he killed Matteo. He killed my brother.”

 

Will slipped into the barn and gently pulled the door shut again. There was at least one man up there with Mason. Two against one wasn't good odds. Time to level the battlefield a little more.

 

Mason's sigh sounded put-upon. “We can give Matteo's family _doctrone's_... _cohones._ For comfort. Yes?”

 

Moving under the platform, out of sight of the men on it, Will eyed the locking mechanism of the pen door. It was a simple bolt lock. The pigs stilled again, watching him. Will tuned out Mason's voice and slid the bolt back. The pen door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

 

The pigs stared at him, malice in their black eyes. They were easily 350 pounds each, with impressive front incisors and short, stout legs. Wetness glistened on their broad backs, around their large snouts. Not the pink breed most people associated with livestock, no; these looked wild, undomesticated.

 

Will stared back at them, without fear. If the previous months had taught him one thing, it was that he wasn't prey. Not any longer. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, he stood as the pigs filed out of the pen, milling about him. Their bristly heads brushed against his hands. Their heavy flanks bumped against his thighs. One or two of the bolder ones snuffled at Will's clothes, leaving streaks of wetness behind.

 

They moved away from him, acknowledging he wasn't food, and began to spread around the barn, snouts to the ground in the search for something more vulnerable.

 

The pigs' sudden freedom didn't go unnoticed for long. “What – why are the pigs loose?” Mason sounded alarmed. “Carlos, what is going on? I _told_ you to make sure the pen door's locked!”

 

“I did lock it. I checked twice.”

 

“Well, check it again.”

 

There was a moment of silence on the platform above Will's head. “You want me to go down there?”

 

“Isn't that what I'm paying your for? Get Emilio to help you. The whole point of this was for the pigs to be in the pen so I can watch! How am I supposed to watch, if they're not?”

 

_You could come down here yourself,_ Will thought, grimly amused. _But you won't, will you, Mason? They're your creation – some special breed the Sardinians helped you raise – but you're scared of them._

 

A pair of mud-caked boots clomped down the stairs, stopping halfway down. “Emilio!” The man – Carlos – descended another two steps, warily. He was short, stocky, powerfully built. A gun glinted in one of his hands. Will doubted the 9mm bullets would really do a lot of damage to the pigs. “Emilio!”

 

Will slid out from the shadows under the stairs and latched onto that gun-bearing hand. The gun went off with an ear-shattering blast. Heat seared along Will's right forearm, all the way from wrist to elbow. He looked up into a pair of wide, dark eyes, into a sun-tanned, lined face, and yanked.

 

Carlos fell sideways off the stairs. His surprised shout was like a magnet, a siren's call. Before he'd even landed on the floor, the pigs were rushing toward him, already agitated by the booming gunshot. Will attempted to wrestle the gun from Carlos' fingers, just as a long snout opened over Carlos' wrist and clamped down. Bones crunched. Carlos' shrill scream was one with the squeals of the pigs. Suddenly in possession of a gun still attached to a twitching hand, Will moved backwards as quickly as possible.

 

He left the pigs to their meal, and threw them Carlos' hand. A mighty head reared up, jaws dripping gore and pieces of canvas jacket, catching the morsel mid-air.

 

Will walked up the stairs, gun in his off-hand. His right hand was numb. Blood was soaking through the sleeve of his jacket.

 

Unimportant. He'd worry about forensic evidence later, if at all.

 

He reached the platform. The expression on Mason's face was priceless. Standing next to Hannibal, a short blade held to Hannibal's throat, he stared at Will as though he was looking at a ghost. Will took note of the knife, attention immediately diverted.

 

Hannibal was in a straitjacket, suspended two feet or so above the platform by a thin length of metal rope attached to an automatic winch. Barefoot, he appeared to be unharmed except for a small wound at the end of his eyebrow.

 

“Hello, Will,” Hannibal said.

 

Mason got himself back under control. “Mr. Graham. I didn't expect you to join my little party. What an unpleasant surprise.” Something like a smirk passed over his face. “I was wondering about you. Ex-FBI, suspected of multiple killings, _and_ a patient of Doctor Lecter's. You know, when you told me you were taken, I didn't think you meant taken by _him_.”

 

Will lifted the gun. He was a decent shot with his right hand. With his left...well, he'd hit _something_. Considering his target, it didn't matter what or where. “Step away from him.”

 

“No. No, I don't think I will.” Mason pressed the knife harder against Hannibal's jugular. A thin trickle of blood stained the white collar of the straitjacket. “You'll just shoot me, if I do.”

 

“I'll shoot you if you don't. I'll shoot you no matter what you do.” Will took a step closer. “One way or another, you're going to die here.”

 

The line of Mason's jaw trembled, then firmed. “Maybe. But he dies with me. Don't think I won't do it.”

 

Will glanced at Hannibal, saw a glint of dark amusement beneath the complacent serenity. A thread of annoyance mixed in with the murderous rage: Hannibal was _enjoying_ this.

 

But he was ready, too, waiting for a sign.

 

Mason licked his lips. “Maybe, Mr. Graham, we could come to an arrangement. Turn around. Walk away. You'll live the rest of your life in wealth, and I won't ever darken your doorstep -”

 

Will's gaze flicked back to Mason. Hannibal reared up, jerking his head back. A long red line opened at his throat, but no arterial spray burst forth. Will pulled the trigger. Mason, a wet stain spreading around the smoking bullet hole in his shoulder, stumbled and screamed, a mix of agony and rage. Inspired by the noise, the pigs under the platform joined in.

 

Mason lunged for Hannibal, a wild, uncoordinated swing. The gun roared a second time. Flailing, Mason went down, reaching for his shattered knee, the knife clattering onto the platform. Will kicked it out of reach. He hooked a foot under Mason's side and shoved him away from Hannibal, bodily placing himself between the suspended man and the _pig_.

 

Will looked up at Hannibal, to find him watching with detached curiosity. “All right?”

 

“Nothing to worry about.” Hannibal's throat was awash in blood, but it was a slow trickle, not the great, spurting gushes that indicated a mortal injury. “I'd appreciate some assistance, though. This contraption isn't nearly as comfortable as Mason made it sound.”

 

With a roll of his eyes and a short look at Mason to make sure he wasn't an immediate threat, Will went to the control panel of the winch. The murderous rage was making way for cold, hard anger, less volatile, more focused. He looked over the railing of the platform. Carlos was gone. What remained of him was little more than a smear of pulp and gore and white bits of bone, mixed with rags of cloth. The pigs were nosing through the remains, fighting over the few leftover pieces. A particularly large one, a sow, stood on the bottom step of the stairs, looking up at Will as though looking for help with getting to where the fresh meat was.

 

_I might just let you come up here_ , Will thought. _Cosmic karma. He who treads on ants shall become one._

 

Once Hannibal was back on his feet, Will sawed through the straps at the back of the straitjacket, using the hooked knife he'd taken from the man outside. Hannibal untangled himself, hanging the straitjacket over the railing with his usual primness. For the first time, Will noticed the camera set up on a tripod, facing down into the pig pen. Mason had meant to film Hannibal's death.

 

Will aimed the gun at the whimpering man's head. Hannibal stepped between them.

 

“Mercy?” Will asked, incredulous. “Really? He intended to feed you to his pigs.”

 

“Mercy would be letting you pull that trigger.” Hannibal approached him slowly, until the gun brushed against his waistcoat, and laid his hand against Will's. “A fast death, and through such impersonal means, is too good for the likes of him.”

 

Will ground his jaw, standing his ground. Fast or slow, he wanted to see Mason dead. He'd shoot him. He'd strangle him with his bare hands, take him apart with his fingernails and _teeth._ “I'm not in the mood for a lecture.”

 

“I'm the injured party here,” Hannibal reminded Will gently. “Don't you think I should have some say in how he dies?”

 

Only with great reluctance did Will allow Hannibal to guide his hand to the side, allowed him to take the gun. With practised ease, Hannibal engaged the safety and slipped the gun behind his waistband.

 

Then he reached for Will's other hand. He frowned at the blood soaking through the sleeve of Will's jacket, frowned more when, probing carefully, he found the exit hole of the bullet near Will's elbow. Will hadn't even taken that much notice of the injury up to now, aside from the initial pain. He flexed his fingers, releasing the hooked knife into Hannibal's waiting palm. He wasn't in as nearly as much pain as he _should_ be, but then, his entire palm and the last two fingers of his right hand were still numb.

 

Nerve damage, most likely.

 

Unimportant, again. “I want him dead.” Behind Hannibal, Mason had curled himself around his shattered knee, whining continuously. “I don't care for artistry or elegance. I want him _dead_.”

 

Hannibal glided his knuckles over Will's cheek. “I know. I want you to watch.”

 

*

 

During Will's tenure as a lecturer at the FBI Academy at Quantico, the Chesapeake Ripper had had a spot of prominence during each year's semester on behavioural analysis. How could he not? The Ripper was one of America's most extravagant killers, loading each crime scene with layers upon layers of meaning and message, often directed at the victim at the centre of the display. Will had always enjoyed letting his students speculate about the _why_ behind the artistry, the elegance, and as usual, sexual deviancy had taken the top spot. It was an element present in almost all 'normal' serial killings.

 

Watching Hannibal now, Will felt vindicated – he'd always argued against the sexual deviancy. The removal and consumption of organs and body parts itself was a sensual act, but that came _later_ , after the kill. Will had always suspected the act of killing wasn't so much catharsis for any of the killer's urges as it was about the transformation of the victims: he gave their death meaning, when they weren't just pests he swatted.

 

There was nothing sexual about this. Mason Verger was a pest, worthless, meaningless, _meat_ , though Will harboured the guess Hannibal wasn't going to save any parts of him for later.

 

Hannibal started with Mason's toes. Slow work, with just the hooked knife, but Hannibal was patient, and it wasn't like Mason was going anywhere. Between screams of agony, he spewed insults, and when those failed – when Hannibal cut Mason's cheeks off, exposing two rows of teeth and gums – he resorted to garbling nonsense, and wild rolling eyes, and finally, the glassy-eyed stare of those slowly but surely bleeding to death.

 

Some time between Mason's cheeks being removed and his genitals departing from the rest of his body, the pigs figured out that the side door to the barn was only leaned shut. The few bits and pieces Hannibal tossed them didn't hold their interest for long, and once the first few ventured out, the rest soon followed. Will heard them, grunting and oinking, then it was silent.

 

Some time after that, Margot appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

 

“You might not want to come up here,” Will told her.

 

“I think I do,” she said, and did, with slow, measured steps.

 

Will looked at Hannibal. Margot was a witness to their crime, potentially a threat. Mason's death meant she would never get her hands on the Verger fortune. Even if she didn't appear to be bothered by it _now_ , who knew what would happen one month down the road, or two, or in a year.

 

Margot stopped at the edge of the platform. “He's still alive.”

 

“Barely,” Hannibal assured her. He held out the hooked knife. “Would you like to finish it, Margot?”

 

“Try, try again?”

 

Hannibal just smiled.

 

Margot took the knife. She stepped through the puddles of blood and bent over Mason, observing him, Will noticed, with a keen butcher's look. She _was_ her father's daughter, after all, at least in this. Without hesitancy, Margot cut through her brother's jugular vein. The resulting spurt wasn't large. Most of Mason's blood was already outside his body.

 

She retreated a few steps, contemplating the knife. Then she held it back out to Hannibal.

 

Knife in hand, Hannibal rose to his feet. “You have two options, Margot. You can call the police and tell them you found your brother mutilated and his Sardinian helpers dead. Forgive me for being frank, but in your current condition I doubt anyone will suspect you capable of taking on three men.”

 

Will suddenly knew what Hannibal was aiming at. “Or, you wait a few days and then report him missing. Until he's legally declared dead, your father's will should not stop you from taking over the family business and making sure to get what you need.”

 

Hannibal nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”

 

It was a solution to Margot's problem none of them had yet considered.

 

Margot looked from Hannibal to Mason's corpse. “I'd have to hide the body.”

 

“You told me Muskrat Farm is vast,” Will reminded her. “Surely there are places only you know. It would have to be a good place, though. A shallow grave won't do. I can tell you they are notoriously unreliable.”

 

She looked from Will to Hannibal, and back again, her expression giving nothing away. “You would be doing me a favour. What do you want in return?”

 

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Hannibal knelt and wiped the knife off on Mason's coat. “Except for your silence. Can you keep a secret, Margot?”

 

Margot looked at her dead brother. A smile was forming on her lips, slow, hesitant. “I've been keeping secrets all my life. What's one more?”

 

*

 

There was more to it, of course; Will talked about forensic countermeasures, about getting rid of the bloody platform, about the fingerprints he'd left on the pen door, on the winch controls, and there was still the corpse of Emilio to consider, too. The pigs had taken a few nibbles but left it otherwise undisturbed, the outdoors proving too much of a distraction.

 

They found Hannibal's shoes and socks in the Jeep. The car would have to be disposed of, as well. Then there was the blood at Hannibal's office, and the door Will had kicked in there, and finally, when it felt like Will had been talking for half an hour without pause, Hannibal crowded him against the side of the barn and shut him up with a kiss.

 

“You came for me.”

 

“Of course.” Will licked his lips; Hannibal tasted of blood. He smelled of blood.

 

“Come: sit.” Hannibal nodded at Will's car, still parked a short distance away, under the trees. “You're pale.”

 

“I'm fine.” Will frowned. He was annoyed and couldn't tell at what. “Don't coddle me.”

 

But he went and sat in the passenger seat, anyway. While Hannibal rummaged through the trunk for the First Aid kit, Will flexed his right hand, and winced: that _hurt_ now. He hadn't lost much blood and suspected the bullet had travelled along his arm, perhaps just leaving a deep graze. Still, the numbness in his palm and fingers remained.

 

Hannibal helped him take off his jacket and rolled up Will's sweater sleeve. The bullet hadn't travelled along Will's arm, but _through_ it. The entry hole was just below the knobby bone of Will's wrist, red and gaping like a mouth. The exit hole was two inches above Will's elbow, and it was a mess.

 

“That will need stitches.” Hannibal prodded the length of Will's forearm. “And an X-ray, to make sure the bullet didn't splinter off bone.”

 

“I just want to go home.”

 

Will leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. Now that he was sitting, he felt lethargic. Mason was dead. He hadn't died at Will's hands, but there had been moments when Will thought he could feel the blood pouring out under his fingers, feel the frantic pulse against his fingertips, the weight of the flesh in his palm. All of Will's anger had trickled away with each precise cut of the knife.

 

Hannibal bandaged the holes in Will's arm with pads and gauze. “Rest for a bit. I will help Margot take care of the bodies.”

 

“She's a witness.”

 

“She is. She also cut Mason's throat.”

 

“She could say it was you. Or me. If Jack gets wind of this – if he makes the connection between Mason's disappearance and Margot being a patient of yours – if they ever find the bodies -”

 

Hannibal tugged Will's sleeve down, settling it carefully over the bandages. He curled his fingers around Will's and squeezed gently. “No one will find the bodies. Ever. And Margot will not betray us.”

 

There it was again, that annoyance. “What makes you so sure?”

 

“Call it intuition.”

 

*

 

Will watched Hannibal carry the corpses of Emilio and Mason to the Jeep. He wanted to help, but with his arm being all but useless now, he would have been more of a hindrance than assistance. He kept an eye out for the pigs, idly wondering if Margot was ever going to attempt to capture the escaped herd. They were strong, sturdy animals, with a taste for human flesh. Mason had broadened their palates. Perhaps soon, there would be news reports about hikers cannibalized by wild mountain boars.

 

Margot took the driver's seat of the limousine. Hannibal steered the Jeep. Muskrat Farm was indeed vast, with dozens of buildings hidden away behind thickets of trees, at the end of overgrown gravel pathways. They stopped at yet another barn, hung with dark green ivy.

 

“This is the old slaughterhouse,” Margot explained. Hannibal was loading the corpses into a wheelbarrow. “Mason and my dad spent a lot of time here, when we were younger. I was never allowed to join them. Men's work, dad called it.”

 

Will could see it. Mason and Verger senior, father-son bonding over livestock, while Margot was kept on the outside. Perhaps her father had meant well: had meant for his little princess to keep her hands clean of blood and the stink of slaughter. Perhaps the reason Mason had spent so much time with their father was far more sinister. Paedophilia wasn't hereditary, but children learned by example.

 

The crumbling exterior of the barn hid a rather sophisticated, stainless steel interior. The equipment was old but meticulously kept. Margot flipped a switch, flooding the place in cold, yellow light. A faint scent of blood hung in the air, as if the pigs of decades past still lingered on.

 

Margot stared at the big machines, the mincers and meat grinders and bone saws, with a distant look in her eyes. “My family runs a summer camp, for children from poor families. Free of charge, all you have to bring are some clothes. Mason...he sometimes brought children here. Showed them around. No one thought anything of it until some of these kids disappeared. And even then, they couldn't pin anything on him. There were never any bodies. He got a slap on the wrist.”

 

_Never any bodies_. The old slaughtering equipment took on a whole new meaning.

 

Margot hunched deeper into her coat. “I don't know what you two are. I only know my brother was worse. I'm glad he's dead.”

 

Will exchanged another look with Hannibal. Would Margot say the same, if she knew what _exactly_ Hannibal tended to do to his victims? How much did she know, or suspect, anyway?

 

Hannibal appeared unconcerned. “Fitting, then, that he should end where his victims ended.” He rolled up his shirt sleeves. “Let us begin. Will is in need of medical attention, and if you don't mind me saying, Miss Verger, you look in need of rest.”

 

*

 

Night was falling, when they were done. Processing the bodies took less time than cleaning the bone saws and meat grinders afterwards. They drove back to the other barn, leaving the Jeep behind. Dismantling the platform was beyond their means, as was cleaning up the mess Carlos had left behind. Will wiped down the pen door and the winch controls, collected the straitjacket.

 

Margot looked ready to faint. Will wasn't feeling much better.

 

“Enough,” Hannibal decided, herding them to Will's car. “Sometimes, these things care take of themselves.”

 

Two hours back to Baltimore. Will dozed, fitfully, his arm feeling like it wasn't part of his body. They dropped Margot off at Saint Francis. The next stop was another small, private clinic on the other end of Baltimore, where one of Hannibal's numerous medical acquaintances X-rayed Will's arm while a nurse fussed over Hannibal's throat injury.

 

“A mugging,” Hannibal explained. “My brave Will here scared them off.”

 

Doctor Mulligan, fat, balding, jovial, tutted. “What is this city coming to? You should press charges.” He hung the x-rays up on a light box. “You were lucky, Mr. Graham. There is damage to the carpal tunnel and the ulnar nerve, but no damage to the bone and surprisingly little muscle damage. The numbness you describe might fade over time, with the right treatment. Make a fist.”

 

Will made a fist. His fingertips tingled. He made another fist, this time around a squeeze ball, and finally, around two of Doctor Mulligan's fingers. The man winced at the strength of Will's grip.

 

“Nothing wrong with your muscle control. Nerves can regenerate, given enough time.” Mulligan wrote a prescription for painkillers. “I'll refer you to a specialist for further treatment.”

 

Back in the car, Will dropped his head against the dashboard and groaned. “And here I thought my days as an FBI special agent were crappy and never-ending.”

 

Hannibal chuckled, ruffling through Will's hair. “One more stop. Then we are done, I promise.”

 

*

 

Two stops, actually: a night pharmacy for the prescribed painkillers, and then, Hannibal's office. Hannibal raised his eyebrows at the splintered lock of the door. “Perhaps I misspoke, when we met. Perhaps 'fragile little battering ram' is more apt.”

 

Will cast him a dark look. “Trained police officer here, remember? Kicking in the Hobbs' door right there at the start didn't give me away?” He lifted both hands to rub over his face, and leaned against the wall. “Honestly, where is this going to end?”

 

Hannibal looked up from inspecting the door. “What do you mean?”

 

“You've already dragged Abigail into our world. Now Margot's in it, too. Is this your grand master plan? A circle of people, indebted to or otherwise dependent on you? A happy, little...murder family?”

 

“Do you think you're dependent on me?”

 

“I think you're fostering co-dependency.”

 

“That wasn't what I asked.”

 

Will sighed. They had touched on the subject before. It had been bothering him for a while. “I didn't say I mind, either. I'm worried that one day, one of those carefully fostered _other_ dependencies is going to break, and take us down with it. And by 'us', I mean you, Abigail and me. What if the next Mason Verger decides to just shoot you in the head? What if the next _Margot_ goes to the police, instead of try, trying again? I saw the look on your face, when you hung there. You enjoyed watching me.”

 

“And you were magnificent to behold.”

 

Will ignored the compliment, annoyed. Either Hannibal really didn't get it, or he was being deliberately dense. It was aggravating, this kind of behaviour. “What if I hadn't arrived in time? I don't want to go to another barn and find you hanging there, dead. Is that such a hard concept to grasp?”

 

He pushed past Hannibal, through the office door, and stalked the length of the room to the edge of the now dried puddle of blood. Hannibal really _was_ like the kid with the magnifying glass and the ant hill. He didn't seem to know when to stop, when to become more careful. Or he knew, and ignored the boundaries.

 

Will had practically changed everything about his life to accommodate the new situation, while Hannibal carried on as before. He'd called it intuition, that Margot wasn't going to betray them; Will had worked for law enforcement long enough to know that most intelligent serial killers ended up caught because they made mistakes: they got sloppy and overconfident, they stretched their luck.

 

Or they crossed paths with people like Will Graham.

 

Hannibal's footsteps sounded behind him, slow. There was an edge to his tone of voice, something cold. “Do you want me to stop killing?”

 

“No.” Honestly, Will didn't think _he_ could stop, now that he'd started down this path. The world was a better place without Clark Ingram, without Randall Tier and Mason Verger. He couldn't deny that there were parts to the killing he enjoyed, always had, from both sides of the fence. “I'm just not comfortable with these games you play, with your patients. And before you ask, it has nothing to do with empathy.”

 

“I see.” The cold edge was gone. Will felt Hannibal's presence warm at his back, followed by arms encircling him from behind. It was a loose hold, comforting. “Abigail told me you want to adopt her. Are you fortifying the nest, Will?”

 

Maybe he was. Will hadn't thought about it much past the practical concerns of one or both of them ending up behind bars or worse, dead. He wasn't thinking about them as a family, having never connected with the concept: already though, to Will's mind, Hannibal, Abigail and he were an 'us'.

 

That 'us' felt like something worth fighting for. Something that had meaning, and a future – but not if one of the 'us' was deliberately sabotaging it from within. Hannibal wouldn't call it sabotage, though. To him, discovering such gems among his patients like Margot, like Will, like Randall, was more like an amusing pastime, an opportunity to help people connect with their inner psychopaths.

 

To Will, it was like laying out the welcome mat for the FBI.

 

“I'm not going to ask you to stop.” Will looked down at the hands folded over his belly. He laid his hand over them. “I don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose you. That's all.”

 

Hannibal said nothing in response, his silence contemplative.

 

*

 

They arrived at the house on Chandler Square shortly before midnight. There hadn't been much to be done about the blood on the floorboards, except cover it up with a carpet. On Monday, Hannibal would call in a private contractor to replace the boards and repair the damage to the door. It was a small company, local; they'd dealt with the results of 'violent patients' before and wouldn't, Hannibal explained, ask any questions.

 

Will took an awkward shower, his arm packed in plastic. Hannibal was waiting for him when he crawled under the sheets. He pulled Will against his chest, carding his fingers through Will's moist hair.

 

Will was almost asleep when Hannibal lowered his mouth to his ear. “Move in with me.”

 

Will lifted his head. He was so surprised – and at the same time, not – that he uttered the first thing that came to mind. “Is that something you want?”

 

“It doesn't have to be this house, if you don't want to live in the city. I'm not particularly attached to Baltimore. We'd need more space, anyway. We're both people who need a door between us and the rest of the world, from time to time.” Hannibal continued petting him, watching him calmly. “But, yes: it is something I want.”

 

*

 

TBC

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is a bit short-ish and posted later than usual. The weather over here ( Germany ) has been absolutely killing me. What little brain I have was being slow-cooked, while the rest dribbled out my ears thanks to the high air humidity. I wrote a few bits, then re-read them later and went "WTF.", so I decided to wait until it's cooled down a little.
> 
> That being said...
> 
> I handwaved a few things in this chapter, first and foremost the part where Margot takes over the Verger family business while her dear departed brother isn't legally declared dead. Does it work that way? Quite frankly, I haven't got a clue. I tried googling American inheritance law, and after reading through ( a few hundred... ) pages, my brain went on strike. It works that way now _because I say so_ , end of story. The same goes for some of the forensic evidence stuff. Why? Because I say so, fallera!
> 
> The scene where the pigs move around Will borrows heavily from the movie _Hannibal_. I give credit where it is due, and it always fascinated me that Hannibal - intended as dinner for said pigs - just stood there unharmed, Clarice in his arms, the pigs milling about. 
> 
> Lastly, thanks to everyone who's been leaving comments! I'll catch up with you guys soon. :)


	13. 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weather still killing me. We got rain now, on top of the heat. Yay. Actual air humidity: 80%. Felt air humidity: 8000%.

**13.**

 

Will said, “Okay,” and then he said, “Wait.” With a groan, he dropped his head against Hannibal's shoulder. “You just _had_ to spring this on me _now_ , didn't you?”

 

Hannibal chuckled. “You don't have to give me a definite answer now.”

 

“Is this another one of those scenarios where you'll be terribly disappointed if I say no, but accept it?”

 

“If you accept that I'll ask again, from time to time, yes.”

 

This could either be the worst or the best change in Will's life, if he agreed. It wasn't something he wanted to think about half-asleep and half-high on painkillers. He did, of course: imagined again how it would be, not having to drive for an hour, having Hannibal just a few rooms away every day, consolidating their households. The potential for disaster started right there. Will didn't exactly live in a mess, but his and Hannibal's idea of cleanliness and order were worlds apart.

 

Far more sobering was the fact that Hannibal intended this – whatever they were now, Will still hadn't decided on a denomination – to last. None of Will's previous relationships had ever gotten to the point where joint accommodations became a serious topic; he wasn't exactly an easy person to live with. Neither was Hannibal.

 

And that wasn't even taking all the other facts into consideration. Hannibal had a day job. Will didn't. Will had a pack of dogs, while Hannibal didn't even have a goldfish in a decorative bowl. They both enjoyed reading and neither of them was a great fan of television, so there wouldn't be too much of a clash of interests in that department, but Will's idea of a relaxing afternoon was standing in a quiet river with his fly-fishing gear, while Hannibal was probably going to attempt to introduce him to the 'finer arts' sooner or later: operas, and restaurants, and that dreaded bay of sharks, Baltimore's upper crust.

 

Finally, if Hannibal _didn't_ give up or limit his dangerous hobby of raising baby psychopaths like orphaned ducklings, living in close proximity opened up a whole other can of worms. The next Mason Verger could well decide to vent his anger on Will, instead of Hannibal – or Abigail, who was definitely going to be a part of Will's life.

 

“Ask me again tomorrow.” Will shifted to a better position for his bandaged arm. No, that wasn't a decision he could make tonight, on the fly.

 

Hannibal clasped a hand over the back of Will's neck, squeezing gently. “I will.”

 

*

 

Breakfast on Sunday morning was interrupted by the telephone. Preoccupied with the pulsing ache of injury, tempted to take another painkiller and sleep the rest of the day, Will didn't pay much attention to the muffled conversation in the kitchen. Ever since waking, he had been dreading the moment when Hannibal would ask again, because he was no closer to an answer than last night.

 

Hannibal and Will had been growing closer and closer, both in terms of attitude and physically, without the crutch of shared living space. Would living together completely eradicate the last bit of his old self Will felt was worth holding on to? He knew he was never going to be the same kind of killer Hannibal was, if the status quo was maintained. There would be no danger of ever sliding down that slope, all the way to the murky bottom where lives were measured in terms of manners – rude, or not rude, pest, or simply an annoyance.

 

Living together could change that. Would his empathy confuse the issue, or would it preserve him? Will didn't _want_ to be like Hannibal, but wanting something and actually getting it where completely different things. He had ample experience in soaking up too much of someone else, inadvertently or willingly; his remote farmhouse in Wolf Trap wasn't just the place where no one bothered him, it was also the space Will needed to be himself, to release the pieces of others he'd picked up, to unwind.

 

And would Hannibal intervene, if he noticed Will _was_ changing, or would he see it as a natural progression? Hannibal wanted to be seen, but was 'being seen' enough, or would he be even more flattered by a _mirror_?

 

With a purely internal sigh, Will stirred his coffee. Anyone else, he figured, would be ecstatic with joy over being asked to move in with their significant other. He, on the other hand, was making an internal list of why this was a Really Bad Idea.

 

“Will?” Hannibal stood next to him, phone in hand, a fond smile on his lips.

 

“Sorry. Wool-gathering.” How long had Hannibal been standing there? Will eyed the phone and made an inquisitive noise.

 

“It's Jack. He would like to speak with you.”

 

The few bites of breakfast he'd eaten turned to lead in Will's stomach. Calls from Jack on a Sunday had never meant anything good, but now Jack really had no reason at all to be calling. Unless, of course, it was to tell him that they'd found some obscure bit of evidence that would land Will or Hannibal, or both of them, behind bars.

 

 _He wouldn't call if he had something. He'd just be here, with an army of agents._ Will reached for the phone, forgetting about his injury for a moment. His arm thanked him with a jolt of pain radiating all the way into his shoulder. Suppressing a curse, he gingerly took the phone with his left hand. “Jack.”

 

A moment of heavy silence followed. Then, a sigh. “I need your help.”

 

Will almost dropped the phone. Flatly, he said, “You're kidding me.”

 

“No. I got two dead families in West Virginia, enough of a signature to tie the scenes together, not enough to figure out the why or who.”

 

Will stared at Hannibal, who was back in his chair at the head of the table and meticulously buttering a bread roll. He answered Will's stare with a tiny lift of one shoulder.

 

“We're thinking single doer,” Jack continued. “He shoots the children and the wives and leaves the husbands for last.”

 

“'He'?”

 

“Secreter. Not in the system. He rapes the men, prior to shooting them.”

 

“Hold on a second.” Will didn't even know where to begin. “The last time we laid eyes on each other, you orchestrated an FBI raid on Hannibal's house, and Zeller scraped evidence right off of me. Now you want _my_ help?”

 

“Nine dead people, five of them kids. I'll take _any_ help I can get.”

 

“I'm pretty sure, even _if_ I agreed to help, there's no way you could get me involved in an official capacity. Internal Affairs would have your head, Jack.”

 

Another heavy silence. Internal Affairs, as well as the Inspector General's Office, might have _already_ gotten Jack's head, or at least a piece of it. Now there was a high-profile case, something that, if solved, would smooth the waves a little and prove Jack's worthiness to his superiors, and Jack was stuck in the investigation.

 

“Will you help?” Jack asked.

 

“No.”

 

As if he hadn't heard, Jack said, “I'm putting a team together. We're flying out there on Tuesday. Let me know what you decide.”

 

A beep signalled the end of the call. Jack had hung up. Will stared at the phone in his hand, then tossed it onto the table, disgusted. “I can't believe that man's nerve.” He caught sight of Hannibal spreading honey on his bread roll with exaggerated precision. The silence spoke volumes. “What?”

 

“I think you should at least consider it.”

 

“You're joking.”

 

“Not at all. Having a foot in the door of the FBI could go a long way toward making our lives easier.”

 

Like it had made Hannibal's life easier. Integrating himself into the Chesapeake Ripper investigation had allowed him that much more control over the situation, and over Will especially. Will could see the merit of such a manoeuvre; he also couldn't pretend his interest was piqued. Family annihilators weren't new, but a family annihilator focused on the _men_? That wasn't something you came across every day.

 

Will turned Jack's offer over and over in his head. A few days' worth of work. An opportunity to play the good cop, which at the moment no one he'd worked with before still believed he was. Perhaps even an opportunity to get the FBI to back off completely, if he proved himself capable of contributing to a good cause.

 

And yet.

 

Hannibal laid the knife down. He gave an infinitesimal tilt of his head. “What are you thinking?”

 

Will ignored the question, letting that 'and yet' grow and ping back and forth. Would Jack go that far? Use a crime scene to get Will to slip, to make a mistake? Tempt him to go after the killer? Entrapment could break a court case in favour of the accused, _if_ it was revealed. Jack was – rightfully – suspecting Hannibal and Will in the murder of Randall Tier and the disappearance of Clark Ingram, respectively. What he didn't have was evidence.

 

Will lifted his gaze. “Maybe I'm paranoid...”

 

Hannibal's eyes narrowed. “You're thinking trap.”

 

“Oh boy, am I thinking trap.” Will pushed his breakfast plate to the side. “There's no way Jack can sign me up officially. The Inspector General's Office stopped him here, remember? He already toed the line between harassment and genuine investigation once. The moment it gets out that he involved me in a case, they'll question his motif. But if he can pin something concrete on me, they might just be more willing to listen to his _other_ suspicions. And the moment my integrity is questioned, the alibi I gave you is worth squat.”

 

It was brilliant, really. Jack _was_ good at his job – he knew where to insert the lever to get results. He realized he couldn't get them individually – not any more – so he changed tactics. He saw them as one now, one team, one unit, one cohesive whole where both partners looked out for each other. If Jack managed to discredit one of them, the other would fall, and like a bloodhound, he'd focused on the perceived weaker link.

 

Hannibal sank into contemplative silence.

 

“Even if I'm wrong about this, Jack Crawford,” Will said, “is a problem.” And he was going to remain one, until they either made a mistake or left the country, or better yet, the continent. Jack wasn't going to let go. He was probably still trying to find Freddie Lounds, too. The Verger situation had successfully derailed Will's attention in that regard; now it was all back to the front of his mind. Especially after last night's question. “And we should deal with that problem.”

 

Hannibal looked up. He appeared intrigued. “Do you wish to kill him?”

 

“No.” Will shook his head. That particular solution had crossed his mind for all of two seconds and been discarded. “Do you?”

 

“The idea has merit.” Hannibal pursed his lips. “On the other hand, I do enjoy his presence in my life.”

 

“You enjoy antagonizing him.”

 

Hannibal conceded the point with a small smile. “Life is dull without adventure.”

 

Will huffed. “You _are_ turned on by danger.”

 

“Tantalized, if you please, not turned on.”

 

“Fine, then: _tantalized_.” Will fought a smile of his own. “What should we do?”

 

Hannibal reached across the table and slid his fingertips over Will's knuckles, lacing their fingers together. “I think we should give Jack what he wants. Give him...closure. We'll give him the Chesapeake Ripper.”

 

*

 

Once the table was cleared and the dishes stacked in the dishwasher, Will excused himself to the bathroom to change the bandages. He'd taken another painkiller, the powerful medication dulling the pounding ache in his wrist and elbow to bearable levels. While he was fiddling with the bandage, Hannibal appeared in the doorway.

 

“Let me help with that.” He tucked the loose end in and reached for the second roll waiting on the counter by the sink.

 

They stood close enough for Will to feel the heat of Hannibal's body. Will's gaze dropped to the pronounced bulge at the front of Hannibal's pyjama pants. He lifted an eyebrow. “'Tantalizing', hm?”

 

Deftly, Hannibal wrapped Will's wrist, securing the bandage with a pin. He was grinning. “Perhaps a little more than that. Though, I assure you, it has more to do with my present company than danger. Although...” He lifted Will's hand to his mouth, kissing a knuckle. “You are dangerous.”

 

Will's breath hitched at the sensation of wet tongue against his hand. “Only when provoked.”

 

Pulling their joint hands down, he crowded against Hannibal, catching his lower lip between his teeth. He bit down, just enough to get the hint of the taste of copper. Hannibal growled, free hand flattening against the small of Will's back, pulling their bodies harder together. The playful bite turned into a devouring kiss. It was a bit awkward, Will having to hold his right arm out to the side to prevent himself from grabbing and causing a painful interruption.

 

Hannibal turned them, until Will felt the edge of the counter against his back. Inch by inch, Hannibal bore him down. Just when it felt that a change in position was required if Will didn't want to end up with a back ache on top of the arm injury, Hannibal dropped both hands to his ass and lifted him onto the counter. There wasn't enough space for Will to lay down flat. He ended up reclining against the wall next to the bathroom mirror, Hannibal between his spread legs, grinding their erections together. Now, at least, he could rest his right arm against a solid surface.

 

Will grabbed a handful of Hannibal's hair, pulling to separate their mouths. Hannibal eyes were narrowed and dark, sharp with want. The collar of his sweater had slipped, revealing a few inches of shoulder. He smelled amazing. Liquid heat crawled along Will's nerves.

 

“Fuck me,” he demanded, craving the intimacy. Danger, however remote, might 'tantalize' Hannibal; to Will, it only sharply outlined everything he could lose. When Hannibal made to pull away, Will kept his grip tight. “Like this. Here. I want to see your face.”

 

Hannibal groaned, belly-deep. “Lubrication. In the bedroom.”

 

Will licked across his lips. “Hurry up and get it.”

 

He had a hand down his pants, stroking himself lazily, when Hannibal returned, familiar glass jar in hand. Hannibal set the jar down and grasped Will's waistband, lifting it up and over his working hand, pulling the pants down and off. He pushed Will's legs further apart, bent over him. The head of Will's cock disappeared between greedy lips, but it wasn't for long. Hannibal knelt, releasing Will's cock with a wet pop, and sucked Will's balls into his mouth, one after the other.

 

Then he moved lower, again.

 

Will knew what he was going to do a second before he did it. “Oh,” Will breathed, alarmed, “wait -”

 

Too late. Transfixed, trapped between vestigial revulsion and a pang of arousal so sharp it made his belly clench, Will stared at the ceiling, tracking the trail of Hannibal's tongue. Soft, teasing licks against his perineum, that sensitive stretch of skin behind his balls, broad strokes further down. Hannibal cupped his hands behind Will's knees and lifted his legs, opening him up completely. Will squirmed, unable to hold still. It tickled, and then it didn't, and then Hannibal licked into him, working against the reflexive clench of muscle.

 

God, this was so _filthy_. Will loved every second of it and moaned his heartfelt appreciation.

 

It was over too soon, not soon enough. Hannibal rose, breathing hard, his lips puffy. He lowered Will's right leg, lifted the other over his shoulder, grinning smugly, and groped for the jar of lube. “That's a good look on you.”

 

Still tingling all over, Will glared up at him. _That_ was definitely something he'd enjoyed, and Hannibal _definitely_ knew it. He managed to pull his dangling leg up, foot against the edge of the counter, and tried to save what remained of his dignity. “Overwhelmed? Surprised?”

 

“Squirming,” Hannibal said, popping the jar open, “aroused,” one wet finger teased at Will's hole, slipped in, crooking. Will bit his lip, stifling a groan. Damn ex-surgeons, still knowing exactly where what was located. Hannibal fingered him. “Mine.”

 

Will laughed, and felt _that_ all the way down to his toes. “Oh god, stop talking.” He concentrated on the sensations, letting them override his body's instinctual reaction of wanting to clench around the invasion. It felt good, better than last time, even. The pleasure was different, slower, not the familiar climb to the finish. It wasn't long before he moaned along with the nudges against his prostate, rolling his hips against Hannibal's hand.

 

Hannibal, watching him intently, kissed the side of Will's knee, the inside of his thigh. He pulled his fingers out. Will saw his wrist move, saw the waistband of his pyjama pants slip lower. The first slick nudge was immediately followed by steady pressure, robbing Will of breath. He grabbed the edge of the counter. Hannibal grasped his injured wrist, light as a feather, and gave him time to adjust. When the burn faded, Will reached down, feeling where they were connected.

 

“Will.” A long tremor ran through Hannibal. The simple gesture, born out of no other intention than Will wanting to, seemed to have unhinged him completely.

 

Will lifted his hips as much as the position allowed. “C'mon. Hard.” Hannibal swallowed, muscle cording his neck. The first thrust was the opposite of what had been asked. Will bared his teeth. “I'm no one's fragile, little _tea cup_.”

 

And that did it. The next jolt wedged Will firmly against the wall. He grabbed for the counter again, staring up at Hannibal's face. That was good, better than before. The angle was perfect. His cock was flagging, confused again, ignored, until Hannibal bent over him, folding him nearly in half. Between the punishing pace and the soft drag of sweater against his dick, Will felt his mind coming apart at the seams. Wound up already, he came without having to touch himself.

 

Hannibal pulled almost all the way out, swallowing Will's moans in a kiss, and pressed back in slowly. Sweat was dripping down his temples. His lips were pulled back in a feral grimace. Three slow, hard thrusts, and Will was ready to swear he felt him coming deep inside. Hannibal collapsed on top of him, brow against Will's sternum, and heaved for breath.

 

Will needed to work to get his breath back, himself, revelling in the aftershocks. He was going to be so sore tomorrow, but damn if it hadn't been worth it. Overcome with affection, he petted the back of Hannibal's neck, felt the skin there moist with sweat and hot.

 

Hannibal was still inside him, and seemed unwilling to move. He hadn't once let go of Will's wrist.

 

*

 

In the afternoon – after showers had been taken and a few hours had been spent napping in a tangle of limbs – Hannibal sat down at his desk in the study. Will perched on the edge of the desk and watched him set out a fountain pen and stationary. They had talked, on and off, lazily, the kind of conversation usually taking place between the sheets, finalizing the plan slowly taking shape between their minds.

 

Hannibal looked up. “This is what you want?”

 

Will nodded. “Don't put a date, though.”

 

Hannibal began to write. It was slow work, the words flowing from pen to paper as elegant as the man composing them. With each precise stroke and loop, Will felt a curious heaviness sinking in his limbs, as if lead was suffusing his veins. It wasn't sadness, or disappointment, or even that vortex of impending doom he was so familiar with; rather, he felt _settled_ – the heaviness as roots tethering him to the desk and the floor beneath, to the foundation of the house and the earth.

 

When the letter was composed and Will had indicated his agreement a second time, Hannibal folded the paper and slipped it into a waiting envelope. It was Will who licked along the flap and sealed it.

 

Hannibal plucked the letter from Will's hand, placing it in the wooden desk tray. Fountain pen and stationary were tidily tucked back into a drawer. “This could break Jack.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Alana won't be happy, either.”

 

The small pang of guilt at the mention of Alana's name faded with the anticipation of what they would gain. “It needs to be done. It is vital that they know.”

 

Hannibal rose. From a cabinet in the corner of the study, he retrieved a heavy crystal flask and two tumblers. Pouring a finger's width for both of them, he handed Will one of the glasses, and held his own up. With a chuckle, Will mirrored the gesture.

 

“To the truth, then,” Hannibal said, “and all its consequences.”

 

They clinked glasses. The aged spirits – bourbon, Will guessed – tasted of wood and smoke. Limiting himself to small sips, Will wandered through the study. This wouldn't just be closure for Jack. Whether or not it broke Jack was almost beside the point. Stopping at the window looking out over the backyard, Will knew the contents of that letter and the event that would follow would cement him and Hannibal together, for better or for worse.

 

_Until death do us part, and all that._

 

He looked at the backyard, the lawn finally emerging from under leftover crusts of snow, the lonely tree by the small pond. “I want a bigger yard.” The words came impulsively. “With a shed, where I can keep my boat motors. Space for my dogs.”

 

Something large and sprawling, with real trees and a real sight of the outdoors, not the façades of town houses on the other side of the street, or the next tiny yard one house over. A river nearby would be ideal. “On the outskirts, where it's quiet. Quiet _er._ ”

 

He turned to observe the impact his words had.

 

For all of two seconds or so, Hannibal looked nonplussed. The puzzlement was quickly replaced by something best described as 'cat that got the canary'. Will could _tell_ Hannibal was trying to contain his satisfaction, to appear nonchalant, but he was getting better at reading his expressions.

 

Lightly, Hannibal said, “And here I thought I'd spend the next years attempting to persuade you.”

 

Will didn't know what had brought about his sudden change of mind. The previously listed reasons were still valid, though somehow less important now. This was going to be one of those situations where the outcome remained unpredictable, yet not _unchangeable_. If it ended in a catastrophe, at least it would end in one of their own making.

 

He wetted his lips on the bourbon. “I have a condition. Rather, a promise.” The minuscule twitch of Hannibal's eyebrows bade him continue. “Play your games, if you must, but play them away from home. I don't care if the next psychopath comes after you, or after me. If there is going to be another Mason Verger, I'll kill him, too.” He smiled darkly. “Or watch you kill him.”

 

“But?”

 

“But if he comes after Abigail, all bets are off. If something happens to Abigail, I'll kill you. That's my condition. That's my promise.”

 

Hannibal looked positively gleeful now. “Why, Will...it seems I've raised a monster.”

 

Will snorted. “You hardly _raised_ me.” He lifted his glass in a mock toast. “You just set me free.”

 

*

 

There _was_ a double family murder in West Virginia.

 

Although Will had already made up his mind that he wasn't going to give in to Jack's request, he looked through the news anyway. The few details the police had released to the press indicated this could be a bad one, one that wouldn't _stop_ ; Will wouldn't. Once you'd had that feeling of power, having someone's life at you fingertips, it was hard to give it up again.

 

*

 

Hannibal spent an hour on the phone, cancelling his appointments for the following week. Then he donned an apron, and cooked. Will sat in the chair by the kitchen door, alternating between watching the knife slice through meat or vegetables, and reading over the paperwork Hannibal had had drawn up over a year ago. He had no idea how America's adoption system worked, or if they'd even allow him to legally adopt Abigail.

 

“I'm ex-FBI, ex-Homicide, exonerated serial killer.” Will shuffled the papers into a stack and slipped them back into their leather folder. “I don't have a steady job, and I live in the middle of nowhere.”

 

“Not for much longer. Let me call Samuel, on Monday. He helped me set up the guardianship in the first place.”

 

“What if it doesn't work?”

 

Hannibal whisked something in a silver bowl. “Abigail is going to be of legal age, soon. She will be able to decide where she wants to live, and with whom. An adoption is little more than a legal formality. The bond you share with her – the bond we all share – goes beyond that.”

 

Put like that, Hannibal was right. Still, Will was going to be crushed if the adoption was denied. Abigail _was_ going to be a grown woman soon, but she was always going to be someone he would want to take care of, in whatever capacity he was capable of.

 

Hannibal set the bowl down. “There is, however, something we _can_ do to tilt the odds in our favour.”

 

“Let me guess – you're the therapist of whatever clerk's in charge of that stuff?”

 

Hannibal chuckled. “Unfortunately, no.” He opened a drawer. Kitchen utensils clicked and clanked. Rounding the counter, something hidden in his cupped hand, a small knife in the other, Hannibal stood in front of the chair, his knees touching Will's. “Your hand, please. The right one.”

 

Confused, Will held out the requested hand. His confusion mounted when he saw what it was that Hannibal was holding – a spool of cooking yarn. Hannibal cut off a length and slipped the knife and spool into a pocket. He looped the yarn around Will's ring finger, tidily, and tied it with a small bow.

 

Dumbfounded, Will looked at the loop of white. Then the implication hit him. “You want to -”

 

Hannibal bent low over Will's hand, hinting a kiss over the knuckles. “But of course.”

 

Will laughed, incredulous. “You _literally_ tied the knot just now.”

 

Hannibal returned to his pots and pans. “I did.”

 

“You can't be serious.”

 

“I am. Very.”

 

Will stared at the yarn around his finger.

 

*

 

TBC

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go. Then done. 
> 
> Notes: The killer mentioned in the West Virginia case isn't Francis Dollarhyde, though there are a few similarities.


	14. 14. & Epilogue

**14.**

 

_It's only when I lose myself in someone else_

_That I find myself_

 

_-Depeche Mode_

 

One visit to Samuel Lynch on Monday, with Abigail in tow; Mr. Lynch gave her the same friendly, curious look he'd given Will when he first met him.

 

 _One happy family,_ Will told himself, holding Abigail's hand while Hannibal and Lynch discussed and argued and plotted. _And in this city, mother of monsters, they shall dwell._

 

*

 

One visit to an expensive boutique in downtown Baltimore, where Will felt out of place with his khaki-coloured, everyday clothing and the other customers gave him a wide berth, as though getting too close meant risking an infection with his style.

 

Abigail picked colours and fabrics and was spirited away behind a curtain by an eager store clerk. When she re-emerged, Will's breath stopped; she looked _radiant_ in dark forest green, the cut of the dress flattering her slim figure. Self-aware, she turned in front of a floor-length mirror. The scar on the side of her neck, in blatant view, added a splash of _danger_ to her overall appearance. It was now the mark of one who had survived and come out stronger, not the mark of a victim.

 

Hannibal smiled broadly, and leaned over to whisper in Will's ear, “Imagine the look on Jack's face when he sees her.”

 

The rest of the shopping trip wasn't _quite_ as dull, with that prospect in mind. While Abigail picked out a pair of shoes to go with the dress, Hannibal approached Will with an armful of dark fabric. The sweater was made from some unpronounceable wool. The price tag stopped Will's breath a second time.

 

“For special occasions,” Hannibal coaxed. “You do need to expand your wardrobe.”

 

Will caved. The material did feel nice. “Just promise me all my clothes aren't going to mysteriously 'disappear', when we move.”

 

Hannibal turned to inspect a rack of ties, a satisfied smirk in the corner of his mouth. “I promise no such thing.”

 

*

 

Lunch at Hannibal's house on Chandler Square: ravioli stuffed with goat cheese, loin of lamb, green beans with bacon. For dessert, a scoop of home-made apricot ice cream decorated with whisper-thin wafers of dark, bitter chocolate and edible flower petals.

 

“I'm nervous,” Abigail confided after lunch, over cups of coffee. “Not about Jack Crawford. About the rest.”

 

Re-emerging into the world, when she'd lived on the fringes for months now, was a daunting prospect. Lynch's prognosis concerning the adoption had been cautiously hopeful. Prior to meeting with Hannibal's lawyer, Will had explained to Abigail that there was a chance – a very real chance – the state wasn't going to allow him to adopt her. He hadn't mentioned Hannibal's unorthodox proposal, had barely allowed himself to think about it.

 

“The important bit is getting your story past Jack.” That, Will thought, was of the utmost importance. More so than his and Hannibal's personal peace, he wanted peace for Abigail. She deserved a chance to _live_ her life, without the FBI breathing down her neck. “The rest will take care of itself.”

 

He – they – would make sure of that.

 

*

 

On Wednesday, a visit to Mrs. McMillan, with a large bag of canned goods from Wolf Trap's convenience store; she was a practical woman living on small pension and enjoyed practical gifts more than a bouquet of flowers or pretty trinkets. Standing on her porch, two cats rubbing up against his ankles, Will thanked her for the trips to his farmhouse, for taking care of his dogs, and then gave himself a little kick, made the changes looming on his horizon real: “I'm moving in with someone. This could be my last visit for quite some time.”

 

“Oh? Who's the lucky girl?”

 

“A guy, actually.” And what would Hannibal say, being referred to as 'guy'? Will suppressed a chuckle.

 

Mrs. McMillan, non-judgemental to the marrow of her arthritic bones, didn't miss a beat. “All the best luck to you, then. Mind, I'm going to miss that ragtag pack of dogs of yours. If you ever need someone to babysit them, you have my number.”

 

His house felt strange, when he returned to it. Although he hadn't even begun packing, it felt like less of a home, a haven, than it had been, as if he had said his internal good byes already.

 

*

 

**One month later**

 

*

 

Spring came with a vengeance after the long winter, thawing the rivers, wetting the earth; Baltimore cautiously unfolded and all the dirty little secrets kept under a cover of snow and ice emerged: cracks in the roads that needed to be repaired, sun-starved skin exposed by collar and skirt, drifters and homeless gone missing released from shrinking snow banks, corpses now, still and preserved in forgotten corners of parks and the rural areas.

 

Amid the annual blame game between welfare organisations and the city's white-collar division of clerks in charge of distributing funds to those in need, the disappearance of Mason Verger took a second-page place in the news. There were more important issues to pay attention to than the eccentricities of a millionaire suddenly gone from the radar, especially one with such a _troubled_ past.

 

When it _did_ become important – when the Christian organisations clamouring for their share of the rich cake pushed for Mason senior's last will and testament to be executed, thereby putting a few thousand jobs in the region in jeopardy – Margot Verger, Mason's twin sister, made a convincing TV appearance pleading for her dear brother to return.

 

In vain, of course. Mason Verger was, and would remain, gone.

 

Will kept himself peripherally aware of the proceedings, busy as he was. Moving was no small undertaking.

 

The new place, six acres of land, half of them forest, was beginning to take shape. The house – the _manor_ , really, Hannibal's house on Chandler Square in triplicate – needed a lot of work neither Will nor Hannibal trusted to hired constructors. Will was good at home repairs and knew how to work with drywall and basic electrical wiring; Hannibal, to Will's surprise, was just as good and not above getting his hands dirty with something _other_ than blood.

 

There would be space for everything: pantries, bedrooms, dining rooms, studies, guest rooms, a nice cellar, even a large office Hannibal was now considering turning into his new work space. Baltimore was half an hour's leisurely drive away and the bulk of his patients, he ensured Will, would be more than willing to make that trip, in order to enjoy Hannibal's continued psychiatric care.

 

The heart of the house was the kitchen. Will had been spending a lot of time there, reluctantly at first, more willing to observe than to lend a hand. Cooking, Hannibal told him, was an art that could be learned, and he started slow – teaching how to fry meat so it would be crisp on the outside, juicy at the centre; how to drain the lungs of fluid; how to cook noodles _al dente_ and not into a soggy mess; how to chill a brain, that rare delicacy, in a bowl of iced water to keep it from losing consistency.

 

Will knew he was never going to have Hannibal's deep-seated _interest_ in the art, his finesse, but he learned to enjoy the process. He liked fixing boat motors and tying his own fishing lures because it was manual work, something with a tangible result; cooking was all that, too. There was something Zen-like about watching vegetables steam, alert to notice the point when they retained their crispness; it was calming, kneading minced meat into neat little squares, for stuffing; finally, it was rewarding to sit at the dinner table, mouth watering from the delicious smells, knowing they had prepared the meal together –

 

“I want to host dinner parties again,” Hannibal said, eyes shining. He reached for Will's hand, the pad of his thumb rubbing against the solid, platinum band around Will's ring finger.

 

Will took a sip of wine. “You just want to show me off.”

 

“You deserve to be shown off.”

 

“I'm not a prize, Hannibal.”

 

“No – you are a shark among goldfish, and you are moving up in the world.” Hannibal turned their joined hands so the overhead lights caught both their rings. He was, Will thought, extraordinarily obsessed with them, and made it a point to display them whenever possible. “Money does offer certain privileges and can grant a measure of protection – dazzle your new friends and they will hasten to build your reputation by word of mouth. Reputation can be a powerful thing.”

 

“I know all about reputation,” Will muttered. The prospect of being introduced to Hannibal's upper crust friends wasn't exactly a thrilling one, no matter the pay-off.

 

“I want to show you the _herd._ ” Hannibal smiled, bright and sharp. “Let me broaden your palate once more. You will not regret it, I promise.”

 

*

 

First, though, Jack: gone to West Virginia for almost two weeks, _sans_ Will, returning empty-handed. Virginia's family annihilator laid low for weeks at a time before striking again; he was clever, that one. He never struck in the same city twice. The press dubbed him the 'Daddy Killer' and the sales of burglar alarm systems in West Virginia soared.

 

Will drove to Quantico one day, when the body count reached 24. Visitor's badge pinned to his lapel, he poured over files and photos for three hours. Jack stood on the other side of the autopsy table, a looming presence, tight-lipped and eager at the same time. Alana, pointedly, looked at the ring on Will's finger, offering no comment. Zeller and Price did their best to remain unobtrusive in the background.

 

Will read the coroner's reports, first. The wives and children had been killed with single gunshots to the head. Executed. Cruel and final, yet strangely merciful as well – no signs of physical torture on any of them. The men were the focus: upstanding members of society, no criminal records, church-going, faithful to their spouses as far as interviews with family and friends revealed.

 

No signs of torture on the men, either, though: abrasions on their wrists and ankles from the rope used to tie them down, rectal tearing from a forceful penetration, but no _other_ marks usually found at scenes of sexual assault, post _–_ or ante _–_ mortem. No bites, no bruises, no mutilations, no saliva, no scratches.

 

The FBI had the corpses on ice. Will asked to see the men only. Similar features, brown hair. White. Two of them had been decorated martial arts fighters, another a retired Marine. With their family's lives at stake, none of them had put up a fight.

 

“We found rope burns on two of the dead women's hands. It's just a theory,” Price put in, “but I'm thinking he makes the wives tie their own husbands down and then forces the men to watch as he shoots the entire family.”

 

Will didn't allow the pendulum to swing. Something was missing – _they_ were missing something, and it was in the evidence, not in the killer's mindset. “Sexual assault is rarely about sexual release, it's about power. Serial rapists enjoy subduing and dehumanizing their victims, but I'm not seeing any of the usual signs. These men were all found tied face down?”

 

Jack nodded. “Yes.”

 

“If this is about power and not sexual release, I'd want to see their faces. I'd want to watch them suffer, and I wouldn't want to miss one second of it, so I wouldn't tie them face _down_. And I wouldn't shoot the wives and the kids before I'm done humiliating the head of the family, either.” The silence that followed was leaden. Amused, Will contemplated that all too often, people who had previously been clamouring for the truth descended into shocked muteness when it was given to them. “You check for the usual, acquaintances in common and so on?”

 

“We did.” Jack pointed at the stack of files on the autopsy table. “Two of the families attended the same Baptist church, but in different cities, three of them sent their kids to the same summer camp, but years apart. Those are the only points of overlap we found. No employers in common, no one hired the same contractor or cleaning service, their credit card histories imply these people never came within shouting distance of each other. We went as far back as we could, all the way to the men's high school records, nothing. We got superficial likeness in the male victims, that's all.”

 

“You focus on _male_ acquaintances, only?”

 

“Of course we –” Jack blinked slowly. “You're thinking team? Bonny and Clyde?”

 

“I'm thinking Bonny, singular.”

 

“Er,” Zeller butted in, “we found semen _inside_ the victims.”

 

Will shrugged. “Lots of ways to get that there. Lots of ways to simulate rape, too. You can put together a rape kit from basic household tools. Anything cylindrical will do. Or just buy a dildo online.”

 

Alana, who had been quiet up to now, frowned. “But if it's a woman, she'd have to get the semen somewhere.”

 

There was that. Will returned to the autopsy table and checked the forensics reports again. He glanced at Price. “Trace samples indicate it's all from the same donor? And it's not in the system?” Price nodded. “The first victim, Mr. Hayles...check, ah...check if it was his own semen found in him. Then check if his semen was used on the other men.”

 

Price and Zeller exchanged a baffled look, then hastened for the computer banks in the back. Jack slammed the door of the cooler containing the latest victim shut. “We could have gotten all of this four weeks ago.”

 

Will leaned against the table. “I could be wrong. It happens, occasionally. And it doesn't really get us anywhere.”

 

Jack ignored the comment. “What are you going to do with the rest of your life, Will? Live in peaceful domesticity with Hannibal Lecter? If you're _not_ wrong and it does somehow lead us to the killer, there are entire families out there who could still be alive.”

 

The driving force of being able to save lives had lost its potency sometime around Will's first few days out of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Clinically Insane. He _could_ save lives, feeding himself to the maelstrom of one deranged serial killer after the other, one piece of his soul at a time. He was _not_ going to allow Jack or anyone – least of all, himself – to guilt-trip him down that road again.

 

Holding Jack's angry glare, Will slipped a white envelope out of his jacket pocket and placed it atop the files.

 

“What's that?”

 

“An invitation. Next week, Friday. A dinner party. To celebrate the house and,” Will lifted his hand, displaying the ring although he was certain Jack had already seen it, too, “this.” He looked at Alana. It was cruel to invite her, when part of the cause for celebration was Will's engagement to her former lover; blatantly disregarding her, however, would have been rude. “The invitation extends to you, too, if you'd like to attend.”

 

For once, Alana's usually so expressive face gave nothing away. “I just might.”

 

Jack said nothing.

 

*

 

Jack's question though, followed Will out of Quantico and into the afternoon.

 

 _What_ are _you going to do with the rest of your life, Will?_

 

It was a good question, one to which he didn't have an answer yet.

 

For now, Will made one last trip to Wolf Trap. From the outside, his farmhouse looked like it always had, a familiar, welcome sight: his little boat in a sea of darkness, the haven he returned to after a day of battling the storm. On the inside, it was stripped bare, the floors swept clean, the curtains gone, a hollow shell. The air smelled stale and faintly of dogs.

 

He stuck his house keys into an envelope, sealed it, and pushed it through the slot of his mailbox, after locking the door. The new owners, a couple of retiring Baltimore lawyers referred to him by Samuel Lynch, wanted the land more than the house; the thought that this rustic, lived-in place was going to be torn down soon and replaced by something modern was saddening.

 

Will gave the mailbox a farewell pat and walked back to his car, his steps slowing when he saw the black Mercedes parked next to it. Margot Verger stood by the driver's door. In the car, another woman sat immersed in her cellphone. She looked up when Will came closer, gave him a friendly nod and a smile in greeting, and refocused on the device in her hand.

 

“Lawyer or girlfriend?”

 

Margot smiled. “Bit of both. We'll see where it goes.” She looked better, back on her feet, the pallor of injury and stress gone, make-up perfect, long hair framing her face in gentle waves. “Before you ask, I'm not stalking you. I called Doctor Lecter, and he told me you'd be here.”

 

Will gave a non-committal nod. Margot was a loose end, _the_ loose end. The serious media had quickly lost interest in her brother's disappearance, but the gossip rags were full with speculations about the Verger fortune. As far as he knew, it was now down to lawyers fighting over Verger senior's will; Margot, due to the stipulations in her father's testament, wasn't even a factor in the ongoing court battle.

 

“I never really thanked you.” Margot smoothed a lock of hair away from her face. “For what you did.”

 

“Is that why you're here?”

 

“I also came to say good-bye. I'm moving. The way things are going, I won't be allowed to remain at Muskrat Farm for much longer, anyway, so I thought I'd spare the lawyers the trouble of evicting me from my childhood home. Judy,” Margot inclined her head slightly to the side, “starts with a law firm next month, in New York. I thought I might give the big city life a try. See how I like it.”

 

“I assume you've made sure you got what you wanted? Money-wise.”

 

“Oh, did I ever. Thank god neither dad nor Mason were great believers in strict book-keeping.” She slipped off her bag and stepped away from the car, positioning herself so her body blocked Judy's sight of Will, and held the bag out. “I want you to have this.”

 

Will eyed the offered bag. He could guess what was in there. “Trying to buy me, Margot?”

 

“I don't know. _Could_ I?”

 

Will shook his head slightly.

 

Margot smiled. “Then it's a gift. To make up for all the trouble you went through, and for what my brother did. And for what you did _to_ him.”

 

Will glanced at the woman in the car. The driver's door was shut, the windows weren't rolled down. The paranoid side of him had already gone through a number of worst-case scenarios, where Judy wasn't Margot's girlfriend but an undercover cop, listening to their conversation. Margot could be wearing a wire. The FBI could be watching their exchange right now. Jack could have gotten to her.

 

“You could be trying to bait me.”

 

Margot lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Or I could be trying to part in the best possible way. I can't prove anything to you. I'm grateful for what you did. I also hope I'll never see you again.”

 

Whether it was a case of some of Hannibal's cockiness rubbing off on him, or Will's own intuitive knowledge that Margot's intentions were genuine, he believed her. Margot would move far away and put the past behind her, to the best of her ability. She had scars, both on the inside and on the outside, that would stay with her for the rest of her life, yet away from her family's oppressiveness, she had a chance at happiness.

 

It still felt as though he was being offered a bribe, not a gift. After a minute of internal haggling, he gave in. Most of his savings and a large portion from the sale of his house and land had gone toward his new home. If Margot insisted on contributing to the bolstering and fortification of the Lecter-Graham household, the money would go to a good cause at least. “Okay.”

 

Margot appeared relieved and pleased. “Thank you, Mr. Graham. And good bye.”

 

“Good bye, Margot.”

 

They shook hands. Will took the bag, surprised by its weight. He watched Margot get into the Mercedes, watched her lean over and kiss Judy's cheek. Judy waved at Will, oblivious of the exchange and the topic of their conversation. They drove off.

 

Back behind the steering wheel of his own car, Will examined the contents of the bag. His eyebrows climbed – he'd guessed money, and there were a few stacks of large bills, tidily wrapped, but the real weight came from several small velvet pouches containing a harder, more lasting currency than paper.

 

*

 

Friday came quickly, not quickly enough, too soon: Thursday evening, Hannibal started preparing the various courses of the meal they'd serve their guests the following day. Abigail arrived and helped, though she and Will seemed to be getting in the way more than contributing.

 

At night, Abigail tucked away in the upstairs bedroom, asleep, Hannibal and Will danced: _Bach_ in the living room, each with a glass of wine in hand, the lights dimmed, hip to hip. It was slow, focused more on contact than rhythm, Will with his eyes closed, Hannibal's late-day stubble against his cheek.

 

*

 

Friday.

 

Jack arrived early. Too early. Will heard the door bell at half past seven in the evening, looked up from the book he was reading. Abigail, curled in an armchair, straightened imperceptibly, relaxed again at Will's calming gesture. They listened to Hannibal's footsteps going from the kitchen to the entrance hall, the door. Jack's voice, the volume too low to make out the gist of the conversation – would he be armed? Will knew _he'd_ be. Jack had followed Hannibal's invitation into the den of the lions, expecting the unexpected; of course he was armed.

 

Will laid his book down and rose. The evening had been carefully choreographed; now Jack's early arrival had thrown a minor wrench into the proceedings. Will was neither angry nor surprised. He laid a finger against his lips, made another gesture: _stay_. Abigail nodded.

 

Jack's and Hannibal's footsteps echoed in the entrance hall, past the door to the downstairs study. Will caught a few, disjointed words of their conversation, yet not enough to gauge Jack's mood, much less his intentions. The sounds dimmed: Hannibal was leading Jack into the kitchen.

 

Will decided to give them a moment. This was as much about him and Abigail as it was about the friendship Jack and Hannibal had shared. He eased the door open in case violence erupted in the kitchen – Jack had to be on high alert, with a particularly twitchy trigger finger – and held his arm out. Abigail snuggled against his side. The minutes passed slowly, marked by the hum of conversation a few doors away.

 

“Ready?” Will gave Abigail's shoulder a light squeeze.

 

“I'm ready,” she whispered.

 

Out of the study and through the hall, down the main hallway, where their steps were muffled by thick carpet. The kitchen door stood open and Jack's broad back filled it. He spoke calmly, but there was an edge to his voice. “They may have dropped all charges against you, but –“

 

Jack stiffened, sensing the pair approaching from behind. He turned.

 

“Hello, Agent Crawford,” Abigail said.

 

Like a man seeing a ghost, Jack stared at her. Will could count the times he'd seen Jack Crawford completely out of his depth on the fingers of one hand; this, now, was one of these times. He manoeuvred Abigail past him, into the kitchen. Hannibal stood at the counter, knife in hand, apron around his waist. On the cutting board before him lay the prime cut of the meat, waiting to be placed in the pan just before dinner was served.

 

“Abigail.” Jack's voice was toneless. “You're alive.”

 

“I am.”

 

“ _How_?” Jack didn't wait for an answer from her. Gone from shocked to furious in the blink of an eye, he glared at Hannibal. “You planned this!”

 

“The dinner party, for which you are early?” Hannibal resumed slicing meat, the slightest hint of misgivings audible. Tardiness was as unwelcome as overeagerness. “Yes.”

 

Jack turned to Abigail. “Whatever they've done to you, I can help –”

 

“They have done nothing to me.” Abigail released Will's arm and took a seat at the small table in the corner, by the patio door.

 

After a moment's hesitation, Will joined Hannibal at the counter. This was it. This was the moment they'd prepared for. He couldn't interfere now; neither of them could. Abigail had to master this meeting with Jack Crawford on her own. Prepared for the slight chance that this could all erupt into violence after all, Will picked up a knife and busied himself with slicing tomatoes for the salad.

 

In a pinch, he could throw the knife. Jack looked like his entire world was unravelling.

 

“Chilton...did things to me.” Abigail held the hair back from her left ear, displaying the scarred ruin. “I ran. I didn't know what else to do, so I ran and I hid.”

 

“Why didn't you contact us? Or the police?” Jack demanded.

 

Abigail scoffed. “You mean the same people who stood back and watched when Chilton took him down?” She jerked her chin at Will. She was playing her role well – her confidence had been replaced by the same wounded fragility that had drawn Will to her. Hunching her shoulders, she hugged herself. “I didn't trust anyone. Only them. So when I heard Chilton was dead, I contacted them. Thanks to my father, I don't have any family any more who want something to do with me.”

 

Jack glanced at Will and Hannibal. Doubt was written all over his face. Anger, too. The puzzle-solver in Jack, Will knew, was trying to find the weak link in Abigail's story. “You could have contacted Alana Bloom. You could have just let us know you're _alive_.”

 

Abigail lowered her gaze to the floor. “You all thought I was a liar and an accomplice to my father's crimes. Doctor Bloom would have tried to persuade me to talk to you. I didn't want that.”

 

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Hannibal dried his hands on a kitchen towel and excused himself, leaving Will, Abigail and Jack to themselves.

 

Abigail's accusation hung in the kitchen like a bad odour. Jack didn't comment. He'd been the first to suspect Abigail of involvement in Garret Jacob Hobb's deeds, going so far to question her while she was still in mourning and institutionalized at Port Haven.

 

Hannibal returned. Alana walked in after him, her eyes widening, her shock obvious. “Abigail...”

 

Abigail greeted her with a nod and a half-smile. “Hello, Doctor Bloom.”

 

Hannibal set pans on the stove, checked on the temperature of the oven. The hiss of meat, the sizzle of fat and juices evaporating, was the only sound that passed between the four of them, and with every moment that did pass, Jack seemed to age a year, until he stood there with his shoulders slumped, expression empty.

 

“Abigail, please light the candles in the dining room.” Hannibal held out a box of matches to her.

 

As soon as she was gone, Jack chuckled. Alana stared at him, aghast. “Well played,” he said softly, to no one in particular. “Well played.”

 

*

 

Dinner was an exercise in restraint, of long stares and uncomfortable stretches of silence. Battle lines had been drawn invisibly along the broad table: Will and Abigail to one side, Jack and Alana to the other, Hannibal at the head. Will wanted it to be _over_. Ambivalent feelings toward Jack and Alana aside, he could barely stand the anguish, the doubt, the anger he saw whenever he looked at either of them. Alana in particular appeared shell-shocked, barely touching her food.

 

After dessert, Jack rose. “A word, please, Will?”

 

They stood on the patio. It was a cool night, clear, the sky unpolluted by light. The air smelled of forest and wet earth. Jack took a deep breath. One of Will's dogs, Buster, came up to the patio and barked, once, then ran off again. The others were romping about between the trees, still acclimatizing themselves to their new home.

 

Jack reached into his jacket and took out a small electronic device. Will recognized it at a glance. Undoubtedly, that wasn't the only thing Jack had brought with him. If there were sharpshooters or a SWAT team waiting to strike, they had hidden themselves well. “A wire, Jack? Really?”

 

Jack switched it off, made a show of disconnecting the cables. He slipped it back into his pocket. “Abigail will have to come in and make an official statement. I assume she's not going to change her story.”

 

“Why would she? You heard her, it was Chilton all along.”

 

“Of course it was.”

 

“You were right about him, Jack. You got the Chesapeake Ripper.”

 

“Did I?” Jack was smiling – the fractured smile of a man who knew he'd lost. “Did I, really?”

 

“Yes. The Chesapeake Ripper is dead.”

 

Jack put his hands into his pockets and made to return inside. “I'll be watching.”

 

*

 

**EPILOGUE**

 

*

 

_Jack watched, for years, but not for too long; one day, in summer, when Bella had long since become Bella to the worms and Jack's half of the matrimonial bed must seem like a gulf threatening to swallow him whole, he died – ignored the cramping pain in his chest and the telephone only an arm's length away, and left the world as quietly as he'd never been before. Acute myocardial infarction, the autopsy said. No signs of foul play. Stressful job and personal tragedy taking their toll._

 

_His passing was a footnote in history; people took notice, but there was yet another war on the front pages of the newspapers, another scandal, another TV celebrity getting married: much more interesting. Will read about it half a world away, in Venice – he'd made it a habit to keep himself aware of the going-ons at the FBI, as much as was possible from an outsider's position – and was in a pensive mood for the rest of the day. Jack had sat at their table, often, following the events in the Spring of 2014. It had been a game, more so on his part than theirs, a brazen infiltration of their sanctuary every now and then, to remind them that Jack Crawford didn't forget, didn't stop watching -_

 

_He'd stopped now, for good. Will was going to miss him, part of him. The part that had once been a friend._

 

_They returned home from their trip through Europe, and paid a visit to Jack's grave. Hannibal placed a tumbler full of Glenfarclas scotch – $10,900 per bottle – at the bottom of the headstone. It was a much more appropriate gift than flowers._

 

_Jack or no Jack, life went on: Will had started writing, contributing articles to the forensic journals. Fiction, when the mood struck him. His books had a small but dedicated fanbase, who lauded his intimate insights into the minds of his protagonists, good or evil. He repaired boat motors and rescued dogs. Hannibal tended to his patients._

 

_Now and then, an FBI agent found themselves on their doorstep, asking advice. Now and then, Will agreed to consult, especially on cases in other states, and when he returned –_

 

“ _How was it?” Hannibal asked, drawing him in, ridding Will first of jacket, then of shoes, then of breath._

 

“ _Not as good as you.”_

 

_The house was emptier, now that Abigail had enrolled in a university abroad. She stayed with them during semester breaks, and when she did, Will took her fishing. Hannibal took her shopping._

 

_Together, they took her hunting. Their quarry was always human._

 

_She called Will 'dad'. Slips of the tongue. After a while, she stopped apologizing for it._

 

_Jack Crawford's successor, Hannibal decided, wasn't worthy of a Chesapeake Ripper, and thus that monster stayed buried and gone. Others took the Ripper's place: the one who left Tarot cards in the bowels of his victims, and the one who absconded with the head of the unfortunates who crossed his path, and the one who was never known at all, whose victims disappeared without a trace._

 

_Abroad, they were less careful._

 

_At the end of each trip, to Europe, to South America, to the British Isles, they returned to Baltimore, Murder Central._

 

 _And amid the horror and the serial killers and the FBI trying to keep up – not_ just _with Hannibal and Will, but also with others, who heard the city's siren call and followed eagerly –_

 

_Amid the FBI agents who still recalled Will Graham as Will Graham, FBI consultant, neurotic and antisocial, monsters in his head –_

 

_Amid the guests who attended the soirées, cautiously at first, Alana among them, bitterer and bitterer each time until she stopped coming entirely -_

 

_Dinner was served._

 

*

 

END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And done. 
> 
> A few parting notes:
> 
> 1\. The end is probably a lot more anticlimactic than some people expected, but it's what I was aiming for. The ultimate success for these incarnations of Hannibal and Will wouldn't have been to run away, to escape, but to remain right where they are: in ( well, near to ) Baltimore, smack under the nose of the FBI, as brazen as you please. If wishes were horses and all that, but _that's_ what I would have loved to see on the show. 
> 
> 2\. Yes, Hannibal and Will did get married. No, I didn't write it. At the stage their relationship was in, marriage was really just a formality, to get the legal stuff out of the way. 
> 
> 3\. The story does have weak points. A LOT. Reading over it now, I should have ended it earlier, or changed some things, but urgh. I had a lot of fun writing it; I'm equally as glad that it's done. ;)
> 
> 4\. Jack's end borrows heavily from the _Hannibal_ ending. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented, bookmarked, and left kudos! <3


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